A Wind From the Sea
by Thanwen
Summary: A sequel to "Choppy Waters". Seven months can be quite a long time, especially if you spend them waiting to be united with the one you love. But life does not stop and many things can happen during the winter, both in Gondor and the Riddermark.
1. Chapter 1

So I'm back to get rid of some hoggish Rohirrim, plundering my stocks of food and booze. They better be warned! ;-D (If you don't understand the remark, have a look at "Visitors" if you like.)

Well, in this place just imagine the usual "all Tolkien's and the Estate's" except for the weird sidekicks.

As this is a sequel to "Choppy Waters" it might be useful to have read that story first, but I don't think it to be absolutely necessary to understand this one.

**If there is any native speaker out there, knowing about grammar and commas: I would really appreciate some help.** I tried to find a beta-reader via the list, but up to now in vain.

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

Edoras, Yavannie, 3020, Third Age

Absent-mindedly Éomer grabbed his mug of small ale, never averting his eyes from the script in front of him. In his scribe's spidery handwriting the reports from the Westfold were listed, confirming what he himself had noticed during last week's tour through that part of the realm: Though the situation still was far from splendid, there was no danger of any lack of food and housing in the coming winter. Some shortages here and there would have to be buffered, as still too few fields had been fit for sowing, but all in all they were making good progress.

The first Gondorean traders had arrived with waggons of wheat in Edoras only one week after his own return from Dol Amroth, the Gondoreans being eager to get at the pelts and woollen cloth for their great fairs before the winter might set in and make the passage through Dunharg impossible. He could not help a smirk; they must have set off as soon as the result of the negotiations had been out, well before he himself had left. Contentedly he leaned back: Rohan truly had to offer something again.

Taking up the quill, he started to tick off those of the listed villages the commissioned supplies had been sent to. The worst was fended off, and except for those lands directly bordering on the Isen, all former fields would be tilled coming spring. Deep in thought he sucked his teeth. They needed storehouses to keep the seeds from harm, and for that they needed timber.

He sighed. The lack of wood was one general problem of the Mark. True, there were forests on the mountain-slopes, but they had already been heavily exploited before the war. Not that much for firing, as peat was used by most, but for housing, the traditional way of building, reaching back to the times in the densely-wooded vales of the upper Anduin, having changed little. Building a wooden house or hall was a matter of pride and prestige. Erkenbrand had been given a lot of trouble with the uncoordinated and reckless felling of trees on the steep slopes of the Westfold Vale below Thrihyrne that brought about the danger of avalanches in winter, endangering complete settlements.

He took a hearty swig. No, he did not envy Erkenbrand, but that fellow was more than capable and had things well in hand. Nevertheless, whatever support could be sent to the Westfold should be sent there. He ran his hand through his hair. The parts north of the Fords still were severely affected … perhaps he should withdraw his people from there at least for some years till the soil had recovered from Saruman's filth. The area had been but sparely populated, so not too great a number would have to be put up somewhere else. South of the Fords settlements and even villages were denser, and with the loss of men in the war, every helping hand would be appreciated to toil the fields there, and the effort would all in all be much more promising for the people of the destroyed settlements in the northern parts of the Westfold than trying in vain to survive in the lands laid waste by the war. He just had to pay attention not to settle them outside of Erkenbrand's influence to avoid rivalries among the Lords. He chuckled. That would keep his counsellors on their toes for quite a while.

Letting pass the well known villages before his inner eye, he pondered, how many evacuees could be taken in at each place without causing problems.

Feohwic: but a small village, the complete housing intact, mostly dairy cattle … that might well be an opportunity to put up some sturdy widows.

Storwang: large fields, oats, barley, some potato and turnip fields … here men were needed, or at least half-grown boys, to do the field work.

Céapham: a large and quite prosperous village, with a regular market and a quite famous or rather infamous inn, well-frequented by the Éoreds ...

_Darn! He should not have bonked that woman on his way back from Helm's Deep last week_. Cursing under his breath, he shoved the parchment away and reached again for his mug, only to notice that it was empty.

Why had that plonker Éothain taken quarters there? With an angry move he pushed back his chair, nearly knocking it over. It was inept to put the blame on the captain of his guard, and he well knew. When travelling to the Westfold they had always stopped over at Céapham, and in the passing years he and Théodred had spent more than one drunken night at that inn, relishing not only the offers the cellar and kitchen did provide. It would have given cause to gossip had he avoided the inn now, and what was more: There was no other inn around for miles.

He should not have drunk that much. As quickly as the thought had formed he discarded it. He had drunk to avoid the wenches, especially Edith, once his and Théodred's favourite, a buxom honey-blonde with a fresh mouth, vulgar but witty, and remarkably lissome. He had been afraid he would think of the woman he really wanted to be with, the one he loved, being in Edith's bed and embrace, and he still was puzzled he had thought of nothing, once he had ended up there, his brain simply seeming to have evaporated.

_Béma's balls, what an idiot he had been_. He went over to the jug on the sideboard to refill his mug. It had been his own fault: He had not been drinking fast enough to pass out in time. So when the ribald jokes around him had started, the challenges, jibes and suggestions, and when Edith at last had stated to the roaring laughter of the other customers that the Gondorean whores had obviously sucked him dry, he had just been soused enough to rise to the challenge quite literally. He could as well not pretend to have been totally drunk, as he had still been well able to perform and even had had enough wits left to pull out in time. He snorted. That would be the last thing he was looking forward too: His bastards running around by the dozen, though he well expected the women at the inn to take precautions.

How could it be that he had felt so completely off balance? He could not even claim that he had acted to ease his body's tension, as he had not lusted after Edith, nor felt the urge for some romp in general, he had just felt provoked. No, he could not blame it on Éothain, as much as he would have liked to, it had simply been his dratted male pride.

He shook his head and sat down at his desk, pulling the list close again, but instead of resuming his work, his gaze went to the sunlit square of the window. What if he had resisted? The whistles and applauding roars as he had swept the wench off her feet had shown what his men had expected him to do, but he had not even felt satisfied when he had finally jerked off, but rather as if he had accomplished some duty. Théodred's duty of old. The leader to prove his virility.

Remembering that feeling was nauseating. Never before had he lain with a woman without feeling passion, without the urge to give himself, the need to feel the woman's response. What if the Valar punished him for it? What if he would drag that numbness into his marital bed? How could he have bedded a woman without thinking of his betrothed? With a pang of self-loathing he realized he was avoiding to even think her name, lest she be affected by his deadheartedness.

Did she expect him to stay celibate? He looked into his mug, as if the answer might be found at its bottom. She had three elder brothers, so surely she knew … He put the mug down with an angry thud. He had to stop fooling himself. This was not about a man's urge, it was about his fear that his leadership might be inadequate. He gritted his teeth. This had to end! He might be King of the Mark, but he would not allow kingship to govern his bed. He had performed as they expected, but by Béma, that was not to happen again!

"Éomer?" The head of his friend and Captain of the Guard Éothain poked through the opened door. "There's a group of craftsmen and some messenger from Dol Amroth to see you."

Seeing the king's enquiring look, Éothain shook his head. "No, not the usual bloke. If I remember correctly he had been Erchirion's squire during the war. Don't ask me why he acts the messenger now. Maybe it's something crucial and Imrahil did not trust it to any ordinary carrier."

For a split second Éomer felt the blood leave his head. _Béma, how fast could gossip travel?_ But then he braced himself. No way Imrahil or anyone in Dol Amroth could know by now about Céapham, and if they did and took offence, he would have to tough it out. He would not back off. Rising from his desk, he raked through his hair with both hands and followed his friend to the hall.

As soon as he entered, he spotted the small group of Gondoreans, his attention being especially drawn towards a tall grey-bearded man, standing at the forefront. While the others deferently lowered their heads at the entrance of Rohan's king, the grey-beard paid him no heed at all, being absorbed in the inspection of the rich carvings on the wooden columns and beams, and even when Éomer had already stepped onto the dais, he continued his examination, even tugging his neighbour's sleeve, pointing up to some special joint in the timber-work of the ceiling. Finally being made aware by his highly embarrassed neighbour that the king was present, the man turned towards Éomer, giving him but a short appraising look, and then glanced back once more at the intricate carvings, a mixture of admiration and regret in his eyes, before he finally bowed respectfully.

Now a young man in the colours of Dol Amroth stepped forward, and bending his knee, he presented the king with a very formal-looking scroll of vellum, the official seal with Imrahil's coat of arms affixed to it. No doubt it was Anardil, Erchirion's squire.

Breaking the seal, Éomer unrolled the parchment and swiftly scanned it. A through and through official document. Skipping the circuitous addressing and long-winded display of titles, he pried for the virtual message, trying to show absolute composure, while he felt his heart beating in his throat. He read … blinked … read again and still found it hard to believe, yet there it was, written in the ornamental script they preferred in Gondor, sealed not only with Imrahil's signet but as well with the princess' flower-framed swan:

_At the request of the revered Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth _ _her Lord Father, Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth and the Grand Council licensed the access to her dowry ahead of schedule. As a token of her deeply-felt care and consideration for her prospective realm and people, the revered Princess ordered the marriage portion to be used for the construction and establishment of granaries in all those parts of Rohan her Lord and King of Rohan, Éomer Son of Éomund sees in need of such. For that purpose the best timber of Dor-en-Ernil shall be provided and Master Calimab, recognised master-carpenter and shipwright …_

Éomer tried hard not to let his inner turmoil show on his face. Timber! Timber for granaries. Where had she got the idea from? Who had told her? Had he mentioned anything like that to her? He was not sure, yet … this was splendid! Exactly what was needed, and yet he could not help feeling disappointed. Why hadn't she told him? Written at least some private note? He upbraided himself. Here and now was not the place to ponder about that. Lowering the letter, he looked up, meeting Anardil's expectant glance. Smiling he nodded to the young man. "That is indeed a generous gift, and a most welcome one, too."

Nodding dismissal to the messenger, he approached the old man, who bowed solemnly in the Gondorean way at his approach, his right hand over his heart.

"So you are Master Calimab?"

Raising his head, the grey-beard smiled. "Yes, my Lord King, that I surely am."

"They praise your work in this missive."

"Ah, do they?" The old man just shrugged dismissively. "What do they know about real craft and art, art that combines the beauty and nature of the wood and the technique and accuracy of a devoted artist." His eyes twinkling brightly, he pointed at the carved beams of the wooden ceiling. "That, my lord is what I call true art, as it enshrines the very soul of the living wood."

Was that old carpenter just glib-tongued or open-hearted? Éomer was not sure about it and decided to turn to business. "Well, Master Calimab, so what about that granaries the princess has commissioned?"

The old man nodded. "Come here, my lord and let me show you." He went over to one of the long tables, and only now did Éomer spot the small stack of vellum on it. Taking the upmost one and laying it in front of the king, the old man eyed him expectantly. "That, my lord, is the kind of building I was told to construct."

Amazed Éomer stared at the sketch the vellum displayed: a béowbur, one of the solid wooden storehouses typical of the Mark with its large beams at each corner that gave the impression as if the whole building was standing on stilts of two feet length, the stairs leading up to the main floor disconnected to keep mice and rats out, the characteristic low door to the cubic main room that in general was used as a granary, topped by a slightly larger room that kept the lower walls from heavy rains and covered by a shake roof. The sketch was done masterly in silver point on slightly roughened vellum.

"I'm not sure if I caught it exactly in every detail, but it is was I guessed from Prince Erchirion's description of what he had seen in Rohan." A faint smile played around the old man's lips. "He even tried to sketch it for me, but I have to admit it took him several attempts till I understood what he meant"

Without a word Éomer took the sketch and held it out to his counsellors, who had by now assembled in the hall. Appreciating murmurs rose all around as they eyed the drawing. Only Eáldread, the chief counsellor, shook his head doubtfully. "Even if Dol Amroth provided the timber, it will take a lot of time to construct as many buildings as are needed."

Totally unperturbed the master carpenter pointed at the second sketch. "Every single beam and plank is marked, and my men are well-trained. Twelve men can erect such a granary in half a day, once the stone basis is laid, and I brought the complete first one already with me. If a messenger sets out for Dol Amroth tomorrow, the next ten granaries can be here within a fortnight, followed by at least three more every week as long as the pass stays open. Each of my men can lead a group of local carpenters and builders, so we can work simultaneously in different places."

"But the wood!" The old counsellor was not easily deterred. "That will need quite a lot of timber, and of suitable quality, especially for the shakes. What do you use? Larch?"

The carpenter shook its head. "No, the princess insisted on cedar wood."

"What?" Eáldread's voice seemed to have risen two octaves. Éomer needed all his self-control not to laugh out loud.

The old carpenter nodded, visibly enjoying himself. "Cedar wood," he affirmed, "the best the Land of the Prince can provide."

After a moment of stunned silence everyone in the hall started to talk excitedly at the same time.

"My lord." Master Calimab gave him a wink. "Would you like to have a look at the timber?"

ooo

Five smallish wains, well apt for the steep and narrow mountain paths down from Dunharrow, stood in the lower yard, covered with strapped canvas. At a sign of Master Calimab two of the carters hurried to remove the covering and revealed a load of beams and planks, tightly packed, each marked with a sign to tell its place in the construction. Éomer stepped close and touched the smooth, honey-coloured timber, and out of their own volition his fingers traced the reddish veins in the beam below his hand. Cedar wood … Gondorean timber to store the grain of the Mark. How much pain she had taken to do exactly the fitting thing. His Queen, his Lothíriel. How he wished to have her at his side this very moment, to feel her, taste her... Her swallowed hard. Six more months till she came, but her name and her care would be known beforehand throughout the Mark, the cedar wood granaries being her token.

Reluctantly he tore his gaze from the warm-coloured wood and turned to the carpenter. "It is wonderful timber and excellent work, Master Calimab. As soon as you feel able to go on, this shall be transported to the Westfold, the part of the realm that has suffered most. The first of the Queen's granaries shall be built in the Westfold Vale. And I shall ride with you to see it being built."

The old carpenter smiled and nodded. "Very well, my lord King. Give me a night's rest and I'll be ready to travel on in the morning. But as I see you indeed appreciate the princess' idea, may I draw your attention to something?"

Surprised Éomer nodded, and with his smile deepening, the carpenter unwrapped a beam that had been packed separately. "The princess herself designed this and ordered me to show it to you. It is to be the browpiece of this and each following granary, if you like it. If you don't, I can as well put in a plain beam or add a carving to your liking."

Intrigued Éomer stepped up to look over the grey-beard's shoulder. The beam was almost completely red with only thin streaks of lighter-coloured wood at the edges, and its centre featured a set of carvings: the swan of Dol Amroth and the horse of the Mark facing each other, framed by the very flowers shown in Lothíriel's signet, but behind each flower three ears of barley could be seen. He swallowed hard, his mind in a haze. The carvings were excellently done, the message clear to every Rohirrim … but had she known what she did when she combined the symbol of fertility with her personal token?

"My lord." Anardil's low voice interrupted his pondering. Turning to face the young man, Éomer found him standing close, holding out a small, flat and beige object to him. Taking it, he realised what it was: paper, something more than rare in the Mark, but as he had seen, quite commonly used in Gondor. Twisting it in his fingers, he eyed the seal at its back and his heart sped up: the seal of Dol Amroth, flanked by two flowers. In a rush he broke the seal, forgetting everything around him, craving for what the letter might hold like a starving man for a fresh loaf of bread. Unfolding the paper, he drank in the sight of her handwriting: clear, well-rounded letters, bold but orderly written, and by the mere sight of it he felt a trace of her personality smile at him. Smoothing the folds, he started to read, a soothing kind of warmth rising within him, filling him with joy as he took in her words.

_Dear Éomer,_

_I have worded this letter over and over in my mind these last days, but still found no convincing way to phrase my intention. So just let me explain, let me talk to you, like you were present. _

_When you are reading this, you will have seen my present, read the official letter Father had the scribes draft. I wish I could see your face. Do you frown? Do you smile? I do not know, though I am certain that at least you will be prepared to listen to me, to let me explain._

_That day, in the garden, after that lecturing of my father's counsellors, you said that Rohan's people as well might see me as some extra-benefit to the trade agreements. You did not put it in such words, but we both know what was said and what was meant. It was then that I made up my mind not to let anyone put me into a chest labelled: "Gondorean Princess, high nobility, decorative but otherwise useless"._

_I wanted to do something special, something to be connected with my name in a positive way, something that announced my coming to Rohan in a useful manner, even before I had crossed the borders. You may call that calculating, or in a more polite wording diplomatic, and certainly there is more than just a drop of politics in it, but nevertheless it is as well something personal, something I carefully thought over, investigated and finally had constructed. _

_I talked to Erchirion, to Father, to Elphir who had been present at the negotiations, and perhaps it comes to your mind now that I even asked you the very last day before you left, trying to work out what Rohan might need and appreciate that could be provided by Dol Amroth through me. It very soon became clear that Rohan had but little woods, construction timber thus being something highly demanded, especially now, with so many homes being destroyed. And it was you who told me about storage problems, though it was just in some kind of half-sentence, a worried remark amongst a lot of hopeful statements concerning Rohan's future._

_So the idea took root to have granaries built, in the style of the Mark but with timber from Gondor. Having already been in the Mark, Erchirion provided a sketch of such a building and Master Calimab assured me to be well able to construct it, though the base would have to be built in stone on-site in Rohan. He suggested to use cedar wood as it has the boon not only to be beautiful and lasting timber, but to keep vermin out as well._

_What I have sent you now is the material to set up a first granary, and if you approve of it, the building and my plan that is, there shall be one in every village of the Mark that needs one, before the winter sets in. Father and Elphir calculated that it can be achieved, as mainly the Westfold would be in need, and Master Calimab is ready to stay in Rohan to supervise the instruction of carpenters._

_It is so difficult to write all this without seeing your reaction. I was so excited all the time, but now, as everything is packed and they are due to leave for Edoras tomorrow morning, doubt falls so heavily on me._

_Perhaps I should have asked you, should have informed you, I know that you would have spoken ingenuously to me, but I wanted to show you and your people that I am aware of their paramount needs. I hope I have done the right thing._

_Yours_

_Lothíriel of Dol Amroth_

Having read the letter, he looked up like a man woken in the middle of a dream, his gaze sweeping once more over the beam in front of him, the smooth surface, the carvings..._ Béma, what would he __give to have her at his side this very moment, his pirate princess, his love._

Suppressing a sigh, he made to fold the letter, when his eye caught a postscript in tiny letters, low in the left-hand corner of the paper, just were his thumb had been. Holding his breath he read, torn between joy and longing:

_ I wish I could go_

_ where this letter_

_ goes. L._

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><p><strong>annotations:<strong>

**Yavannie:** (Quenya) approximately our September

**Dor-en-Ernil **(Quenja) Land of the Prince; Prince Imrahil's realm

**béow:** (Old English) barley

**bur:** (Old English) small house

**béowbur** is a word-construction of my own; if you want to know what I had on my mind, have a look on the net for a Norwegian **stabbur. **(Oh, and not to forget: Traditionally in the old Norwegian farmsteads or villages, the stabbur was the place where a serious courtship started.) ;-)

**cedar wood: **I had the Lebanon Cedar on my mind, the timber being referred to in several antique and medieval texts as being easy to work on, beautifully coloured and very durable, which made it sought after for building houses as well as ships.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you all for reading, subscribing and reviewing. It certainly is a very nice feeling that there are still people out there, reading my stories after me having gone into hiding for quite a time. And I was really moved at your reaction to me asking for help, especially for Silverswath's encouragement and immediate support.

And thanks a lot to CTSan as well for pointing out that mistake to me, though that typo was really one to become the "typo of the year"! ;-D

And last but not least I would like to thank Sep12, who has battled through the upcoming chapter with courage, patience and determination, and last but not least with a profound knowledge of the language which I myself lack.

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><p>Just imagine the usual disclaimer "here". (There is one in my profile as well, if you are fond of reading disclaimers. ;-))<p>

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><p>But mind you: Winfrid, Frithuswith and Lynet are mine and I love them! (You can have Orva and Sibley though, e.g. if you need some punching-ball!)<p>

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><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

Standing at the window of his study, Éomer King of Rohan looked out over the roofs of Edoras towards the peaks of the Ered Nimrais in the distance. _I wish I could go where this letter goes ... _He knew her letter by heart by now, having read it over and over last night. Master Calimab and his men had left for the Westfold in the morning, as well as a messenger for Erkenbrand at Helm's Deep, and Anardil had set off for Dol Amroth.

Four days till she would get his letter, a poorly drafted script, stammering out his thanks for the timber and her solicitousness. Éomer raked his hands through his hair, silently cursing himself for not being able to put his thoughts and feelings into writing. What would she think of him, reading his wooden phrasing and stilted wording? Why could he not follow her example, and let his heart flow into that cursed quill, both simple and plain? He would leave in two days for the Westfold, meeting Erkenbrand at the entrance of the vale at Baeccotlif, where the first granary was to be erected. And he had to put some things right before that.

The sounds of boots and Éothain's angry voice out in the corridor caught his attention, and turning round, he found himself confronted with the scowling captain of his guard, who unceremoniously shoved Winfrid into the room, holding the slightly swaying youth at the shoulder. "Rescued that imbecile of a squire out of the talons of the kitchen staff. As far as I understand, they tried to get him sloshed to worm some details about the queen-to-be out of him."

"And you came upon them in the kitchen accidentally?"

"No, Lynet came running to the guards-room to fetch me, obviously fearing for this colt's health and life." Éothain gave a low chuckle.

" Lynet?" Éomer was not sure he had ever heard that name.

"One of the kitchen maids. Has as much brain as three inches of dirt road, but is quite popular with the stable hands as the rest of her is in a much better condition," Éothain explained drily.

"Lynet is a good woman." Surprised the two men looked at the bleary-eyed boy. He blushed furiously and avoided their gaze, but nevertheless continued his statement. "She is nice and goodhearted and Frithuswith says she's a good worker, and she really cares for her baby. That twats only use her, and because she's so dumb she won't say no if they make puppy eyes and tell her she ought to take pity on them and their todgers." With hanging shoulders Winfrid gulped, staring out in front of himself.

Alarmed Éothain lifted the boy's chin. "Do you feel sick?"

Winfrid made a half-hearted attempt to shake his head. "No, only dizzy."

Éomer frowned. "Better get him a bucket. I don't feel like having him retch over the carpets of my study." Wordlessly Éothain made for the door, only to be stopped by his friend and king's voice. "Just get the chamberpot from my bedroom." Leading the boy to one of the upholstered chairs along the wall, Éomer made him sit and pulled his own chair close. "Well, Winfrid, I don't know how drunk you are but try to tell me what happened."

The boy's face was pale, beads of sweat forming on his upper lip and his temples, and Éomer was grateful when Éothain returned with the chamberpot. "Come on, Winfrid. What do you remember?"

"I'm not that drunk." Winfrid's voice was low, little more than a whisper. "I was in the kitchen, and Sibley wanted to know about the princess, and well, I told them, but they wanted more. Other things, I mean. Sibley gave me a cup of mead and I took it." He stopped, realising his mistake, and eyed the men, his face a picture of sad surprise. "I took it... I should not have ...I..."

"Never you mind, Winfrid." Éothain placed an assuring hand on the young squire's shoulder. "All of us would have taken such an offer at your age. And not only at that age," he added with a wry grin.

"They wanted to know things ..." Red spots started to appear on the boy's pale cheeks, and Éomer pulled the chamberpot a bit closer, just in case. "When Sibley was sure I would not tell more, she told the others to hold me, and Orva did." The boy's voice was hardly audible now. Staring at his hands, he drew a raged breath, before he continued. "She just grabbed me from behind and squeezed me against the back of the chair." Slowly the tears that had been filling his eyes started to brim over, big single drops rolling down his cheeks. "I just couldn't do anything."

Leaning towards him, Éomer touched the boy's knee. "Winfrid, Orva is a she-troll. Not even Grimboern would have been able to do anything, once she had him in a headlock." _What had those_ _wenches been up to?_ Trying to keep his composure for Winfrid's sake, he smiled, but the boy was inconsolable.

"Sibley pinched my nose shut with one hand, and ... I had to open my mouth to breathe, and she poured a whole cup ..." The boy sobbed, his shoulders convulsing. "I couldn't but swallow, it... it was so ...humiliating. And they laughed ... "

"Who? Winfrid, tell me, who laughed?" Éomer's voice was calm and cool, and Éothain shot him a worried glance.

"Sibley and Orva and some others … I don't know. Somebody said it was not right, but nobody stood up against Sibley and Orva. And then ..." His sobs grew louder, desperate. "I played along with them ... pretended I was drunk, just to keep them from pouring more mead down my throat. I was so afraid I would say things … lose control over my mind as well ... it was so disgusting. And I had thought they cared about me, not Sibley and Orva, but the others, I mean."

Pulling the hem of his sleeve down, Éomer dried his young squire's tears. "Buying time was the only thing you could try, and it seems it worked." _  
><em>

The boy nodded. "They gave me a third cup, and I pretended to drink, but I only took very little sips. But I had to tell them something to keep them occupied. So I just told them what I had heard ... what the guards had said … and the kitchen staff in Dol Amroth … and the stable lads ... And then Éothain came and brought me here."

"What exactly did they want to know?" Éomer found it ever more difficult to stay calm.

"What the Princess looked like: how tall she was, her face, her hair, her... "The boy blushed again. "I told them she was an archer and a good rider..."

"Oh, no!" Surprised, Éomer looked at his captain who grimaced with a groan.

"No, not that... that's what they wanted to hear. I would not tell them that." The boy's voice had become more and more slurred and his lids started to close.

"The effect is fully setting in," Éothain whispered, his face grim.

Éomer nodded. "Seems you got to him just in time. Have a look where Frithuswith is, she should be informed what's going on in the kitchen."

"Lynet told me Frithuswith was in the market with the cook, looking for some special herbs and spices for preserving I don't know what. I sent the woman to fetch her. She'll be here any time."

As if on cue the door to the study was flung open after just a perfunctory knock, and Frithuswith, the white-haired housekeeper of Meduseld, swept into the room, a wide-eyed Lynet in tow. In a few words the men explained the situation, Frithuswith listening with a grim face, while Lynet started to sob at the sight of Winfrid's sagged body, until the housekeeper sent her to fetch some peppermint tea for the boy.

"That woman is as goodhearted as a dairy cow and unfortunately at least as dumb." Frithuswith sat down on Éomer's chair with a sigh. "Get the boy to sleep the drink off somewhere. It isn't so much that I fear he will throw up, but I will put Lynet to watch over him. As flustered as she is, she would be of little use in the kitchens now anyway."

"Let him sleep here. I would not have anybody see him in that state." Without ceremony Éomer opened the door to his bedroom, and, sweeping the dozing boy up in his arms, Éothain carried him over to the large bed and left him there in Frithuswith's care.

"Éothain." The king's voice was low but stern. "What about that thing he did not tell?"

Éothain groaned. "Look, Éomer, I'm bloody sure you don't really want to know. The bloke who said it meant no harm, was totally ratted and has been three weeks on cesspool duty afterwards, so just let it stay at that, will you?"

One step brought Éomer close to his childhood friend, and grabbing his tunic with both hands, he pulled him even closer, till their noses nearly touched. "Leave it to me, what I want to know and what I do not. This is not some idiot insulting me, but it seems that some twit insulted the future queen."

Éothain just shook his head. "Nay, no Eorling would call it an insult, though it was rather …well, disrespectful."

"And?" Éomer kept glaring.

"Oh, hang it all!" Seeing that his friend was not going to let things lie, Éothain decided to get it over with as fast as possible. "If you must know, it was when we camped on the road back from Dol Amroth. The men talked about the princess' riding abilities. Well, and then one of them commented on her legs." Shooting the king a quick side glance and spotting no immediate danger, he continued. "You remember, that last day when we galloped along the beach and it was so gusty?"

Éomer just nodded. He remembered onlytoo well. They had been a party of sixteen riders, Lothíriel and her mother being the only women amongst them, both dressed in formidable Gondorean riding-dresses that covered their legs, flowing down well to the stirrups. Well, up until the moment the princess had decided to race him along a small stretch of sandy ground. Circling the big rock that marked the turning point, she had been busy pulling the horse's head round, when a sudden gust had whirled up her gown, exposing her leg to well over the knee. True, it had been covered in a tight-fitting hose, but that had left little to the imagination.

Exploiting his surprise and urge to stare, she had given her gelding his head and left him behind for a complete length. It had not occurred to him then, that his guards had been treated to the same inspiring view as he himself. As a matter of fact nothing had held his attention at that moment but the woman in front of him and that sudden tightening of his groin that had made galloping exceedingly uncomfortable. And even after they had joined the rest of their company again, his thoughts had repeatedly strayed to how their race might have ended had they been alone, racing over the plains of the Mark. Even now the mere thought of that slender, but well-muscled leg caused a wave of heat to rush through his veins._ Béma, how he wanted her, needed her, his pirate princess. Her enraptured face, when they had kissed in Imrahil's garden, her body pressed against his, strength and softness mingling, the smell of her skin..._

Éothain cleared his throat. "Well, I see you remember. As for that man: He said that if the thighs kept what the calf promised, she well had the ability and right to ride a stallion. All in all it was rather praise than insult, though one I did not think him authorised to, and therefore I sent him on cesspool duty once we were back at the barracks. Satisfied now?"

Avoiding his friend's gaze, Éomer answered. "Sorry, I know I should not have asked." He laughed mirthlessly. "I doubt you have told me the exact phrasing, but it doesn't matter. It was your responsibility and I'm sure you solved it fittingly." He turned back to the window, leaning on the windowsill with both hands, looking out unseeingly. _It was but September. How was he to survive till March?_

He was certain he had not said it aloud, but his bearing must have given him away, because he soon felt Éothain's hand on his shoulder. "That bad?" The captain's cerulean eyes examined him with commiseration.

Éomer pushed himself off the windowsill. "I'm probably making an ass of myself," he admitted, just when Frithuswith came back into the study.

"That depends," the housekeeper said drily.

Éothain shot her a warning look. "It's serious, Frithuswith. I mean, he is serious."

The housekeeper raised her eyebrows. "Boy, there is no one in the whole of Edoras to doubt that after last night's performance."

"What do you mean?" Bristling with anger, Éomer turned towards the old woman. He respected her, even loved her dearly, her love and care having made Meduseld a home for Éowyn and himself after his parents' death, but his nerves were as tense as a bowstring.

Frithuswith just shrugged. "Take it down a notch, will you? The tongues all over this dratted place are wagging like the lambs' tails in spring. Éomer, for Béma's sake, what do you expect to come of it? You _stroked_ that beam for all to see. I bet my last skirt they went to peek at the carvings as soon as you had left." She grinned provokingly. "At least that's what I did. And there are some who would pay treasures to know what she told you in that letter the young messenger gave you in the yard."

"I told you I made an ass of myself." Éomer raked both hands through his barley-coloured mane, but the housekeeper just laughed.

"Éomer, why do you think these two kitchen-harpies tried to intoxicate poor Winfrid? Up to now that princess of yours was just some Gondorean merchandise: Just one more item on the list of the treaty."

He opened his mouth for an angry riposte, but she forestalled him, holding up her hand. "Don't get in a lather. That's what all of us thought, and if you are not totally daft you must well have known. You are King of the Mark now, and we suffered greatly to fulfil our oaths. Many saw the arranged marriage to Gondor's highest and richest young lady as a valiant access to some well-deserved loot, or, to put it more friendly, wergild."

"She is no item, no loot and no wergild, and I swear, Frithuswith, be he high or low, whoever dares to insult her as such, will have to answer to me." His voice rang like steel, his fists clenching the edges of his desk.

Looking at his display of deadly rage, the old woman smilingly shook her head. "No, Éomer King, there will be no one in Edoras to say so anymore. And that's what I was going to tell you. A blind beggar could feel with his stick how smitten you are, and that's why that cork brains wanted to know what the princess looks like." She chuckled. "No, Éomer, that rumour has been put to death, but that does not mean, that there will be no others to replace it. Mind you: Yesterday you stroked the timber, today you may hear people tell that you kissed it, and tomorrow..."

Éomer groaned, burying his head in his hands."Can't any of you be serious for just one minute?"

"I surely can." Frithuswith's expression turned grave. "Éomer, what Sibley and Orva did to Winfrid can't be tolerated, no matter how curious they were."

Éomer nodded. "Even if he were a mere stable lad and not Erkenbrand's nephew, to force him ..."

"There is no need to discuss it." The old woman stood. "They will leave Meduseld on the spot. And no, Éomer King, I don't want you to interfere. The kitchen is my realm and I know how to rule it."

Even if he had wanted to say anything, he was prevented by Lynet, entering with the tea. The housekeeper shooed her over into the king's bedroom and then left the study in a forceful stride.

Éothain grimaced, looking after her. "You know, sometimes I'm just happy Elfhelm was our first captain. I'm not so sure if we would have survived Frithuswith."

Thoughtfully Éomer scratched his jaw: "They say that Queen Morwen left because of her in the end, and sometimes I'm close to believing it."

His friend nodded. "She truly is impressive, but I'm afraid gossip is a thing even she can't stare down." With a wry smile he turned to the king. "It's like a river during the snowmelt: You can't stop it, you only can try to lead it where it does least harm."

**ooo**

Éomer dismounted, and throwing Firefoot's reins to Winfrid, he made for the door of the inn. He had to get this behind himself, once and for all. Assiduously, the man servant threw the door open to let him pass. Stepping into the dimly-lit common room, he at once spotted Edith, coming around from behind the counter, her dress as always flaunting a lot of cleavage. Two steps brought him close, and the inviting smile on her face abruptly changed into an expression of shock, when he grabbed her wrist and rudely pushed her into the direction of the staircase.

"Upstairs, woman. We have business." His tone was clipped and bidding, and out of the corner of his eye he saw more than one customer's mouth hang open. Hastily she obliged, giving him an uncertain side glance, but as soon as the door of her room closed behind them, she made an attempt to switch to business, reaching for the buckle of his sword belt. "Stop that." He caught her hands and shoved her off at arm's length.

She swallowed, a flicker of undisguised fear showing in her eyes, before she tried her luck with a different approach. "My Lord King... "

He felt like slapping her, but he knew he had to keep a level head. Letting go of her, he hooked his thumbs behind his belt. "Edith, we need to talk, urgently and seriously."

She certainly was surprised, but nodded her consent immediately, feeling visibly relieved. "Sure, we can talk, but why did you drag me upstairs for that like a troll in rut? You truly scared the wits out of me."

He could not help a smirk. "Blimey, Edith, I never thought I would see the day when you are scared by a man dragging you up here."

Massaging her maltreated wrists, she sulked. "You should have seen your face, Éomund's Son. Well, what do you want to talk about?"

"I want you to leave me alone."

She blinked, obviously not comprehending. "And to tell me that, you drag me upstairs?"

_Why couldn't she just understand and leave it like that!_ "Edith, I could not well tell you that in the common room. I'm serious. I do not want you to approach me any further. That is not only you, but any woman."

"Béma's balls, Éomer King!" She looked truly shocked. "What happened? I mean, it can't have been me. I swear: I check, I keep clean, I ..."

Close to despair, he raked both hands through his hair. "Woman, you have me wrong. There's no problem with my tools and I don't blame anything on you. I just want you to let me be."

"But why?" Never had incomprehension been clearer in any face he had ever beheld.

How to tell her? He was sure she would not talk about anything that went on in this room to anybody, taking what she called "professional honour" more than seriously, but would she be able to understand his reasons? How was he to explain himself, his deep feelings, his love for Imrahil's daughter to a woman who thought nothing about servicing a complete Éored well before breakfast?He tried the vaguest attempt first. "It's because of the Queen."

Edith nodded, but did not seem to comprehend anything.

He tried again, going the long way round. "Edith, you've seen the timber for the granary?"

Another nod. "Sure, mighty fine wood."

_Bet she had an eye for anything worth more than half a pint of ale! _ "It was the princess' idea to send the timber, Edith. She found out without me telling her, what the people of the Mark need, and she provided for it. Out of her free will, and mind you, with her own purse." If that was not an argument she could follow, what then?

She seemed to grasp the idea. "She knew, eh?" Chewing her lower lip thoughtfully, she finally concluded: "She has elven ancestors they say. So you're afraid she might come to know other things, like your little romps in the sack as well and not approve."

"No!" He gritted his teeth ."There's nothing about being afraid or the like. I love her and I want _her_, and no other woman. I will not lay with any other till she comes in spring."

Edith looked at him, obviously stunned, and then a slow smile started to spread over her pert face, wiping out all traces of vulgarity. "Man, you're smitten, aren't you? So that is the reason you were so reluctant last time."

He needed all his self-command not to yell. "If you noticed, why did you insist?"

She just gave a scornful snort. "Look, Éomer King, you drank with the men. I just made you act as they expected. I may know as much as a wet fart about politics, but I know the people, their needs, their dreams and fears. As long as they take a bloke's cock-stand as the one and only token for his ability as a leader..."

Angrily he cut her short. "You know quite well that it's not like that. No Eorling would accept a useless man on the throne of the Mark and follow him just for his ..."

Her pert smirk stopped him. "And what about Fengel?"

He felt the heat of an embarrassed blush creep up his neck, but seeing it she just shook her head. "No, Éomer King, I well understand what you want to say. The cock does by no means make a true leader, but the people like the idea of their leaders being the most powerful stallions. And every man wants to be as good as the van. It's an obsession." She gave a throaty chuckle.

"As far as I know, you get quite a coin out of that obsession." Not even trying to camouflage his anger, he glared at her, but she was not impressed at all.

"True. That's why I keep my gob shut downstairs. And they would not understand anyway. But you should know better." Tilting her head, she looked at him appraisingly. "But perhaps you do. Who knows?"

"Well, if the facts are clear now, I will take to my quarters." Thoroughly irritated, he made for the door. _He had not come to be lectured by a whore. _

"Wait!" Coming after him, she grabbed his elbow. "Don't be a fool now and spoil everything. Use your brain, Éomund's Son."

"Woman, stop getting on my wick!" He clenched his fists to compose himself.

Swiftly she stepped between him and the door. "Éomer, think! No one will believe that you did not at least try to bonk me, what with the way you dragged me upstairs. If you go down like that, still in your hauberk and with a face like a thundercloud you will but rise gossip and assumptions. Don't risk that. Let them believe what they want to believe anyway and make it fit with your plans."

"You have a reputation to loose, eh?" With a disdainful smirk he shoved her aside.

"You bloody bull-headed git." She nearly spit in her fury. "Ah, what do I care! Men! Any mule has got more brains than them." Yet as he grabbed the door-knob, she put her hand on his. "Please, hear me out at least. It won't take long." Feeling his hesitation, she insisted. "Please, Éomer King, do it for your Lady's sake."

"Woman!" He grabbed her wrist, the surge of fury rushing through him almost making his words inarticulate. "Don't you dare drag her into this ..."

She gasped in pain and shook her head. "You don't understand. I never meant to insult her or you. I understand that she is special for you, that you love her, that you want her and no other woman … that no other woman even gets you up, but you have to keep your head. You are not Céorl from Anlicham, you are King of the Mark, and people watch what you do."

He had let her go while she had been talking, partly ashamed of his outburst, partly surprised at her words. "Well, I'll listen, but make it quick."

She nodded. "Let's go through it step by step. As it is, that timber your Lady sent is something very special in itself. Why, everyone and their mother went to gape at it, when the carpenters stayed at the inn. And she sent you that timber without you knowing it beforehand, as a present to her people-to-be? Tell me: Is it really cedar wood as they say?"

"Yes, it is. And there is more to come. Every village in need of a granary will be supplied to ensure next year's harvest, and I will be present at the erecting of the first one in Baeccotlif the day after tomorrow."

She nodded, her lips pursed in appreciation. "That will really be something. These granaries will always be connected with her name. And yet...," she scratched her jaw thoughtfully. "It would be even better if you were not just present, but doing something. Like putting in some big beam or joint or something like that."

The idea hit him like a pole-axe. "The browpiece!" _The carvings!_

She nodded. "Yes, that would be a good idea." Looking up, she noticed the expression on his face. "Éomer King, is there anything wrong?"

He had to swallow to clear his throat. "No, there isn't. Not at all. You're probably right. That would really make clear that I declare myself bound."

She laughed. "You are as up the pole as the rest of the people. But go ahead with it. A granary from Gondor for the seeds of the Mark, and the king sets the browpiece! Even the last dork will get the meaning."

He felt embarrassed at hearing his own thoughts from her lips. Perhaps she was right about him being as superstitious as his subjects, but then … he too was an Eorling. So what? "Well, is there anything else you have to say?" Not really expecting any further attempt, he reached for the door-knob again, but she forestalled him.

"To keep things clear and smooth, put your sword at the wall over there and leave your hauberk at the foot of the bed." Seeing him frown, she shook her head. "Don't be daft. Anything else would simply raise doubts. So let those fools believe you played the mearh for the last time before you regard yourself bound. Mind you, as soon as that granary is set up, you won't have to explain anything anymore. Just don't let any of the carpenters touch that browpiece. You yourself have to put it in. Every Rohir will think it some magic, Éomer, and there will not be one wench to trouble you." She chuckled. "And what is even more, every man will pity you for quitting the dance and admire you for bearing it."

He knew she was right. And he had not even told her about the carvings. Had Master Calimab shown them to anybody but him? That really would be a message every Rohir would understand. A message that had made him ache for his betrothed in a way he had never thought possible. A message she perhaps had not even intended, not knowing about the ancient symbols. Should he not have told her before the first granary was set up to give her a fair chance to alter it, just in case? He had not wanted her to change it, not for his life! Standing there in the windy yard, two days ago at Edoras, he had relished the sight, had drunk it in, wanting to believe she knew and told him her desire, had not been able to think of anything but to make her wish come true. And even now, thinking about it, he felt longing and ardour coil up inside him. _Béma, let it be a true sign, let it be one of those elvish prophecies that come true!_

"Éomer King?" Edith's concerned voice brought him back to reality. Wordlessly he unbuckled his sword and then threw his mail on the bed. Edith had messed the sheets up and now worked up some lather on the washcloth before placing it in the washing basin. Jerking her head towards the bowl, she motioned to Éomer. "Gob in."

"What?" _Was this woman totally nuts now?_

"Spit into the water." Rolling her eyes at his incomprehension, she explained. "The servant will come to clean up, and believe me, as nosy as she is, she can't tell spittle from cum."

"You are not playing this farce for the first time, are you?" He was not sure if he was more surprised or disgusted about her behaviour.

Edith just snorted. "There is more than one stallion in the Mark that should be put out to pasture. And mind you Éomer King: Some are good and honest men, ashamed to play act like this, but as long as those oafs downstairs have their old idiotic images of what makes a true leader, it's the likes of me their names depend on."

"And you get paid for what you don't do." _This truly was ridiculous._

Her face was grave now, all pertness gone. "No, you err. I get paid for my service, whatever this service might be, and my silence about it."

He tried to ignore the cold shudder that crept down his back, suspicions rising in his mind, images of trusted friends, honourable warriors … _He needed to get out of here._

Grabbing his belt and dagger, he made for the door, determined not to be stopped again. He pounded down the stairs and only stopped to fasten his belt and shove the dagger into it on one of the last treads. Looking into the common room, he found most of the customers gaping openly at him, but the bawdy remarks soon died down, as neither Éomer nor his guards showed any reaction. With a jerk of his head Éomer motioned Éothain to follow him to their quarters in one of the side wings across the yard of the inn, and his friend and captain of the guard rose, his face an unreadable mask.

Once they were out of doors, Éomer turned towards his friend: "Where is Winfrid?"

"I sent him off together with Folcred and Berhtulf to look after the horses and then go and unpack your saddlebags. I thought him better out of the way when I saw you making for the main room like a charging bull." His voice was offish despite the casual phrasing, and left Éomer in no doubt about his friend's judgement of his behaviour. Crossing the cobbled yard in a huffish silence, they passed the midden and Éothain stopped. "Go on, I'll just have a piss."

_Bloody idiot! _Éomer felt offended. Not so much because of being ordered about by his subordinate, but rather by his friend breaching the old comradely habit. Every time they had stayed at Céapham's inn, they had stopped for a pee at the midden on the way to their quarters after a more or less sound booze-up in the common room, and now Éothain behaved like a blushing maiden. Éomer was willing to accept that his friend did not want to talk to him right now, believing him to have had it off with Edith, and he knew he would have to try and explain the whole affair to him later, but that ostentatious hint that he would not even tolerate him at passing water, vexed him thoroughly. He was not going to accept that.

In a mute and stubborn challenge, he stepped up beside Éothain and made to unlace his breeches, only to find his access hampered by a square knot. _Morgoth's balls! How could he have forgotten that he had torn that lace in the afternoon and perforce secured his fly with that dratted intractable knot!_ Cursing under his breath, he fumbled in the dark, until Éothain's irked voice broke in on him: "What's wrong, man? Got crab lice?"

Éomer snapped angrily. "I wouldn't be able to see them in this murk, would I? It's just that bloody broken lace. I can't open the knot I tied this afternoon."

He felt Éothain turn besides him. "This afternoon, eh?" Looking up he met his friend's gaze, the torch near the doorway reflecting the mirthful sparkling in Éothain's eyes. "Ah, well." Chuckling, the Captain of the Guard laced up his own fly. "That certainly is the best news I've heard for quite a while, Éomer, though I'm afraid you'll have to use your dagger if you don't want to wet your breeches."

* * *

><p><strong>annotations:<strong>

**Beaccotlif :** (Rohirric/Old English) beac: stream; cotlif: little village

**Céorl: **(Rohirric/Old English) very common name (male);meaning: man, free farmer

**anlich: **(Rohirric/Old English): common;

**ham:** (Rohirric/Old English): village

**Céorl of Anglicham:** my own construction to replace "Joe the plumber"

**mearh:** (Rohirric/Old English): horse/warhorse/stallion


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you for letting me know that you still enjoy reading, and special thanks to **sep 12** for helping me with the language. I hope my English will improve by and by to save her at least some of the mind-numbing work to chase some other person's errant commas. ;-) **You really are a great help!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

It was shortly after noon, when Éomer and Erkenbrand of Westfold arrived at the building site in Baeccotlif. Crowds of people in festive clothing were milling around in the field near the village centre, eyeing the timber and the foreign carpenters with open curiosity. Near the far end of the field a stone base had been erected by local craftsmen and within a few hours the Gondoreans had put up the granary as high as the ground floor would reach. Only the front had been left somewhat lower and featured a gap over the low door where the browpiece would be fitted in.

The sunshine, as well as the freely flowing ale, heightened the general atmosphere and King and Marshal were greeted enthusiastically as they dismounted. Given the warmth of the day, Éomer was glad he did not have to wear mail, but the slender golden band of the royal circlet now seemed heavier than his helmet. It still felt strange to him to lead his people apart from in battle. To be King and leave the Warrior behind, even if only for a while, still made him feel uneasy, like a walker who found himself unexpectedly on a quaking bog.

He heaved a deep breath. He had dreamt of her the previous night. Though he had not remembered anything in the morning, he was sure about it: She had come to him in his dreams, making him feel whole and healthy. Clean, as if his body and soul had bathed in a mountain stream. Lothíriel, his queen to-be.

A strange fluttering seized his diaphragm as he gazed at the granary. Though only halfway built, its well-planed timber eradiated solidity and beauty, the yellow and red glowing in the late summer sun. Master Calimab walked up to the king, greeting him respectfully in the solemn Gondorean way and led him over to the place where the carved beam lay, still wrapped in canvas. "Your message arrived in the morning, my Lord King." The old carpenter smiled. "You truly do us great honour."

Éomer nodded absentmindedly, his attention drawn to the beam before him. Slowly he untied the fastenings and threw off the covering.

… _I wish I could go where this letter goes... _

The red wood seemed alive, the carvings standing out, beautiful, promising … His large hands traced their outlines as if he were in a trance and he felt his heartbeat speed up. People were closing in, trying to peek around him, and soon there was a general murmur, rising in volume as those in front informed the ones in the crowd behind about what they saw.

"Sire?" Éothain's low voice startled him out of his reverie. Meeting his friend's gaze, he nodded, and in an unobtrusive but designed way his guards made to clear the way. Soon there was a free path towards the building, lined by throngs of excited people on both sides.

Pushing his forearms under the beam, Éomer lifted it and slowly turned around to carry it towards the granary. Though scarcely five feet long, the browpiece was broad, and he felt its weight as he cradled the beam to his chest and strode up to the building. Carefully, he mounted the stone steps that led to the main room of the ground floor and stepped over the gap between the stair and the narrow platform in front of the entrance. Two Gondorean carpenters stood in attention at each side of the low door, but Éomer shooed them away with a move of his head. He would do this and no other man was to touch the browpiece. Shifting the beam inch by inch down to his hands, he finally was able to lift it, raise it as high as his chin and carefully fit it into the gap over the door opening. Shoving it into its exact place, he felt the muscles of his arms tremble, a strange puckering, as if they were missing the weight. Drinking in the sight before him, he breathed deep and then turned around to face his people. Shouts of approval arose, horns were blown, and as he stepped down from the béowbur, groups of Rohirrim approached, eager to help the carpenters with the top floor of the building.

Watching the completion of the granary, Éomer felt as if he had had too much mead: enveloped in a haze of warmth and friendliness, the smell of grass, wood and the roasting meat, the hub-hub of the voices, some tunes of a fiddle played a little further off … He felt at peace.

"I never thought it would be that beautiful." He had not noticed Egefride approaching but was happy to see the old lady, Marshal Erkenbrand's mother, now well into her seventies.

"Lady Egefride." Smiling he bowed. Being the eldest woman of the local lord's household, she would carry the first basket of grain into the granary once it was erected. He offered her his arm and led her to one of the low benches and immediately one of the servants came up to offer them some refreshment. Raising her cup to him, the old woman glanced at him knowingly. "We thought it a mere political union, and still all this might be a well-arranged show to convince the people, but watching your face I have come to the conclusion you are at least not entirely untouched."

"Oh, have you?" He could not help the happy grin, spreading over his face. "Wait till you come to know her, Lady Egefride, and you will understand."

The woman chuckled. "No, Éomer Cyning, it's enough to know you to understand. If ever a man was smitten, it's you."

He shrugged. "I assure you, being smitten did not cause me to choose wrong for the Mark." His remark triggered a short guffaw from Erkenbrand's mother. "No, certainly not. One look at that timber is enough to prove that."

**ooo**

The afternoon passed with more talk to a medley of nobles and commoners, everyone commenting on the quality of the timber, the usefulness of the trade agreement with the Falas, and the strengthened relations between the Mark and Gondor, but no one referred directly to the Princess of Dol Amroth.

Within three hours the granary was set up and the roof covered with shingles and Éomer found himself at the head of a line of twelve women clad in simple, white linen robes, their hair unbraided, each of them carrying a round, shallow basket filled with grain. To the sounds of drums and horns they approached the granary, the king walking at the side of Lady Egefride, who looked transformed in the simple garment, barefoot, with her white hair flowing around her like a veil of dignity. It was his task to lead them to the bottom of the steps and to receive the empty baskets once they returned.

And then it happened. Later he would not be able to explain what it had been. A thought, an imagination, a feeling … something stirred deep inside him, took hold of him, pierced his very core, filling him with need and longing. He turned to the old woman at his side as if drawn to her, not seeing Egefride but the priestess of Erce, and bowing, he addressed her with her honorary title. "Ealder Módor, let me do this."

His own voice seemed alien to himself, as if some other force spoke through him. Her gaze held his. Old eyes, deep with wisdom and experience of a long life, and he felt exposed and yet safe and understood. She nodded gravely, and with trembling fingers he unbuckled his belt and let it slide uncared for to the ground. Unclasping the brooch of his tabard, he let the garment follow before he finally toed off his boots and placed the royal circlet on top of the heap of his discarded clothes. Barefoot he had to walk Erce's grass; no metal was to enter the béowbur with the first grain. Clad but in shirt and breeches, he turned towards the priestess, and the old woman placed the shallow basket in his hands, which he had not realised he had been holding out pleadingly to her.

_How light it was, and yet how heavy a burden: His people's future._

The singing had stopped, the people stunned by his daring to interrupt the sacred act, unchanged since the days of Eorl, but when he lowered his head in deference and the old woman's bony fingers drew the sign of the blessed rune on his forehead, approving murmurs rose around him and as he turned and slowly ascended the stairs, the singing started again. Bowing low under the browpiece he had set at noon, he entered. It took him a moment to adjust to the dimness. He knew where the first fill of grain had to be placed: right opposite of the door, were a small department had been divided off along the wall. Following the shaft of light that fell in through the door, he crossed the room and stopped at the specified place.

He could not see the token in the dim light, but he knew it was there, cut high into the plank before him: The rune of the circle of the sun, sowing and reaping, life and death. He knelt down and took a deep breath. Slowly he raised the basket, tilting it till the grain started to glide out of it, a small whispering trickle of life into the dimness of the granary.

_Erce, eorthan módor, care for this corn. Erce, eorthan módor, care for my people. Erce, eorthan módor, bless our fields. From the protecting darkness of your womb life sprang to feed us. Sun, the fruit you sang into being with sorrow, conquering night, sun set high in the sky called forth growth. The circle now has closed. Erce, eorthan módor, take this grain back into your care. Let not a single seed drop on barren rock, take all back into your embrace. Through death's sleep let it come into life again._

He felt the rustling of the grain more than he heard or saw it, his heartbeat adjusting to the double-beat of the drums outside, his soul rising with the jubilance of the fiddle and then he could not tell anymore where his hands ended and the basket began, as he felt his very being pouring out in a wave of warmth. Not urgent or rushing, nothing like life spurting out of the gash of a wound received in battle, or the ecstasy of spilling his seeds in the act of passion. This was deeper, darker and draining him completely. And he gave himself, body and soul, feeling himself flowing through his fingers, his entire being but a single grain of corn.

_Erce, eorthan módor, feed my people. Erce, eorthan módor, bless our fields._

It took him a while to realise that the basket was empty. He stood, feeling separated from his own body and turning, he faced the light beckoning to him... the drums... the voices... his people... life.

Straightening up after passing through the low door, he looked out over the field in front of him. The strange feeling deepened, as if a part of him was soaring somewhere up in the sky over the crowd, watching himself as he stepped out of the béowbur. Feeling unsure, he looked up at the sun, the movement causing his shoulders to touch the lintel behind him.

_The browpiece..._

He closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, the safe solidness of the timber, and something inside him switched. Opening his eyes again, not yet breaking the contact with the wood, he felt himself again, entire and balanced. And yet something had changed. And then he understood. For the first time he had given himself willingly for the sake of his people. True, he had fought for them his entire adult life, had suffered and bled for them, had led them, never asking what the cost might be. And yet, he had been but a warrior, not a king. How reluctant he had been to negotiate with Gondor, though he had known that trade was what his people needed; how irritated he had felt during the negotiations. Now suddenly everything seemed to fall into place: Both Warrior and King he had to be. Leader and first sacrifice should the Valar demand it.

_The beam behind his shoulders …_

Warmth pooled through him. She would come to him, support him, share his life. It was not hope that filled him, but utmost certainty. Like the grain he was cared for, blessed. He need not fear, for the winter would pass. Like the grain he had to be patient and the circle of life would start again.

Heaving a deep breath, he pushed himself off and broke the contact, descending the steps, the empty basked pressed to his chest. Bowing low, he handed it to the old priestess and once again their gaze locked. Smiling, she nodded, taking the basket from him, and he sighed with relief.

He had come home.

**ooo **

Later he sat on one of the benches, beside Erkenbrand and his wife, relaxed and contented, a cup of ale on the rough table in front of him and watched the people. He would have to talk with Erkenbrand about his plans concerning the relocation of the people north of the Isen, as well as about Winfrid's situation at Meduseld with Sigward, the boy's grandfather, but at the moment he was taking a break from everything that troubled him. The timber of the granary glowed in the setting sun, music waved over from the other edge of the field, where a group of youngsters had started to dance … He drank deep. Life was good.

At one of the neighbouring tables sat Master Calimab, surrounded by a group of women of different ages and social rank, all of them eager to get his attention. The old craftsman was quite an impressive figure, his grey hair and beard well-trimmed, and in his colourful finery he reminded Éomer of an old peacock in the midst of a flock of his hens.

Erkenbrand's youngest daughter Herelufu, a sturdy girl of sixteen with an intelligent open face, acted as interpreter, as most of the women knew but little Westron and she was quite busy forwarding all the questions her companions had to the Gondorean. His head tilted slightly, a faint smile on his face, the carpenter listened attentively, not even trying to hide the pleasure he felt at the female attention he was showered with. He now nodded emphatically, answering a question Éomer had not overheard. "Yes, Lady Herelufu, as I said: The princess herself told me to do it like that. I had thought about carving the emblems of both realms on the lintel, but she wanted me to do it this way."

Éomer pricked his ears. He could not well understand what the women said, but the old man's rich baritone rose audibly over the general noise.

"Yes, she did the design herself. The flowers are her personal token, her name, you see? Lothíriel means _flower-garlanded maiden. _She sketched it in silver point on vellum." Herelufu asked him something out of her own account, and Master Calimab's smile deepened. "Oh yes, she can draw very well. She has done some wonderful portraits of her little nephew. She has quite an artist's eye."

While Herelufu shared the information with the other women, the carpenter sipped his ale, all polite attention, when at last the girl turned back to him. Éomer twiddled with his cup, trying in vain to get her next question, but the carpenter's answer put things clear. "Yes, yes, she certainly was. When I showed her the finished carving, she was very pleased with it." The pride in the old craftsman's voice could not be missed. "She said that I had managed to do it exactly the way she had seen it."

"She had seen it?" Herelufu's exclamation induced a flurry of excited murmurs, questions and remarks in Rohirric and Éomer felt his throat go dry.

_Her ancestors had elvish blood, had she really seen some vision, some prophesy?_

Obviously the women had thought the same way he had, for after the girl's next question, Master Calimab, vigorously shook his head. "No, dear lady, no. Not like that. I'm afraid you misunderstood me. The princess is not fey. Not at all. It is correct that one of her ancestors is believed to have been married to an elven woman. Yes, that's right, and certainly there are traces of elvish beauty. Pardon?" He bent towards the young woman to understand her question. "Oh yes, my lady, she certainly is beautiful."

The hubbub died down, as the old man raised his hands. "I'm afraid I expressed myself in a misleading way. She did not see the design in a vision, but rather before her inner eye, like an artist imagines his work to be. As a matter of fact... " He was interrupted by another question, and nodding patiently, he affirmed. "A wish. Yes, one could put it like that. How she wanted it to be. Yes, those were her words."

The women smilingly exchanged meaningful looks when Herelufu translated and soon the rumour passed from them to the neighbouring tables: _The carvings on the browpiece expressed the future queen's wish!_

Éomer twitched. They were obviously at cross purposes, misunderstanding each other due to some weaknesses in Herelufu's interpretation or knowledge of Westron. Should he interfere, put things right? He looked up from his cup and met Erkenbrand's gaze, the Westfolder's eyes twinkling with laughter. Éomer shrugged. "I know your daughter got it wrong, but what shall I do?"

"Nothing," Erkenbrand chuckled . "And why should you want to do anything? If you ever wished for any promotion for your Queen there couldn't be any better."

Éomer shook his head. "Brand, you know she might never have meant it like that, might not even have known how it would be read in the Mark."

"Might? So you are not sure if perhaps she did?" Erkenbrand's wife grinned at him, passing one arm around her husband's waist. "Or are you afraid she knew and just want to shun the exertion?"

Her husband guffawed at his wife's banter, and pulling her close, he winked at the young king: "Éomer, you saw those carvings beforehand, didn't you? Don't try to tell me your thoughts did not run down the exact same road! If you did not want the people to come up with stories like that, you should not have allowed that beam to be put in, let alone carried it yourself, shooing away the craftsmen like some jealous stallion would shoo some nosy colts."

His wife chuckled. "We were truly expecting you would bite them or kick out at them."

"Was I that bad?" Éomer could not help a grin.

"No," Erkenbrand said, taking a hearty draught. "Worse." All three of them were laughing now, causing people around them to turn towards them, raising their tankards in salute.

Éomer reached for his own cup. _Life certainly was good today._

**ooo**

It was still early that night when he retired to the royal pavilion that had been erected on the other side of the village. He had to tell her and if he finished the letter tonight, the messenger to Dol Amroth would be able to leave at dawn. Sitting down at the small table, he reached for vellum and quill, trying to fight his misgivings concerning the task that lay before him: putting his thoughts and deepest feelings into script.

_Dearest Lothíriel, beloved one..._

Surprised, he looked at the words on the parchment in front of him. Had he really written that? He had. Without hesitation, not pondering the words, simply following his feelings. He smiled. He knew he would never reach her fluency, but he no longer worried about how she might interpret his words. Perhaps he was not able to express himself as clearly as she was, but she would ask if there was anything she was not sure about. Dipping the quill again, he continued.

_Today we erected the first of your granaries in the Westfold. In Baeccotlif, right at the mouth of the Westfold Vale. You have a map to look at, haven't you? It was a nice feast, as the sun shone all day. I love you. I am proud of you. I wish you were here._

He stopped, frowning. Not a very reasonably structured letter. Reading the sentences again, he shrugged. He had got carried away by his feelings, so what? She would understand. Smiling somewhat sheepishly, he plodded on.

_But then you were here, I felt you. I saw you when I touched the timber._

Jarring, stumbling phrases. If he only had her here at his side, he would be more than able to express his gratitude. He sighed, but determinedly dipped the quill again. He had to tell her. Had she really not known? For a moment he felt nearly overwhelmed by what he wished for.

_Lothíriel, my beloved wife and queen to-be, your gift to the Mark was highly admired by everybody present. You have done the right thing, provided what was needed most. I wish I could thank you personally._

He stopped again, grinning rakishly. Oh, he would thank her with all he had. But still the most complicated point had not been mentioned.

_The carvings were much admired; more so, as Master Calimab explained that you yourself had designed them._

He stopped again, hesitating. How to break the news to her? Finally he decided for the short and direct attempt.

_You truly made me very happy with your care and consideration. Only few of my people write and read, but certainly you know that we use traditional icons. I love you and I will as long as I breathe, though I am not sure, beloved, if you realised, that by adding those barley ears to your personal signet, you announced your wish to give birth to six children, three daughters (the ears on the left) and three sons (those on the right)..._

* * *

><p><strong>Annotations:<strong>

**Ealder Módor:** (Old English) Grandmother, here used as a title, to show respect

**Erce, eorthan módor:** (Old English) Erce, mother of the earth

I took the name of the Anglo-Saxon goddess of the earth to represent

Yavanna Kementari, just as Béma is a Rohirric version of Orome.


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you for reading, adding to favourites and reviewing. It is gratifying to know that you enjoy the story. **And special thanks to sep12 for her wonderful help with the oddities of the English language. ;-)  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

Three days later they approached Edoras in the evening. As if to agree with Éomer's mood, the sky had started to cloud over around noon and for the last three hours they had been riding through monotonous drizzle. There was no wind and the rain was not hard enough to make horses and riders seriously uncomfortable, but it felt like some grey damp blanket, spread over plains, mountains and minds alike.

He knew he had no reason at all to complain as everything had gone splendidly. Furthermore there were no acute problems at the western boarders, as most of the Dunlendings had moved further north-west, mainly due to the lack of fish in the Isen. Erkenbrand had acknowledged the sense of the king's plans to relocate the Rohirrim of the northern part of the Westfold for at least the coming year and had supported it wholeheartedly, as had Lord Sigward, Winfrid's grandfather on his mother's side, who actually was involved most, being in charge of the large area between Adorn and Isen.

The king's gaze wandered to the boy on the gracile sorrel riding at his side. Too small for his age. He sighed. It had to be expected, the child being born nearly two months early, his mother fatally ill with the coughing disease. It was rather a miracle that the tiny mite had survived at all. Éomer still remembered the awe in Erwig's voice when he had told them of his little son's unquenchable will to live. And live he had. Lived and become a handsome and intelligent lad, well-educated and highly sensitive to everything around him.

But still, despite his obvious mental growth, his body had remained frail and too small. There was nothing amiss with his proportions though. His body was that of a fourteen-year old: slender, with the too long, coltish limbs typical of that age. But he was little taller than any ten-year-old in Edoras.

Éomer frowned. He could not close his eyes to the fact that most of Winfrid's chores as a squire overtaxed the boy's bodily abilities. He was perfect at polishing mail and weapons, and Firefoot's tack was cared for with amazing skill, but the boy nearly staggered under the weight of the hauberk, when hanging it on the weapon stand in the king's room. And in the stables he had to use a stool to reach the upper pegs in the tack-room.

Yet he had shown an admirable endurance and patience towards Firefoot, thus finally winning the cantankerous stallion over. Éomer could not help a grin, recalling the stable hands' disbelieving stares when upon their return from Dol Amroth that bastard of a charger had followed Winfrid around like a lapdog at the boy's soft cooing calls. But on the other hand, that had certainly raised jealousy in some of the lads.

He had to find a solution, but where to put a boy like Winfrid without humiliating him? The talk with his grandfather, who had been Winfrid's guardian since his father's death five years ago, had been one of the most painful talks he had ever had. Not that the old man had not seen his point. They had agreed on Winfrid's advantages and shortcomings, but not being able to present an acceptable solution to an obvious problem had hurt Éomer deeply. With Winfrid's elder brother inheriting the land and title, there was nowhere fitting for a boy of his frame to go.

In Gondor someone like Winfrid might have had a splendid career in some administration or in trade, like many later-born sons of the local nobility, but being a Lord's son in the Riddermark meant to become a Rider, anything else would be seen as inappropriate and a disgrace.

The boy had spoken little on their way back to Edoras, nor joined the singing of the guards in their quarters at Céapham, though he had a good voice, and Éomer supposed his grandfather had talked to him. Perhaps he should write to Aragorn and Imrahil to find an adequate place for the lad.

Feeling uneasy, he shifted his position in the saddle. He was writing quite a lot lately and there certainly were letters more welcome to pen. And to receive as well. He knew there would be no letter from her waiting for him at Meduseld, could not be, given the distance between Edoras and Dol Amroth, not even in answer to his first, rather wooden and official one, thanking her for the timber. But reason was one thing and wishing quite another.

**ooo**

Soon after sunset they passed through the gates of Edoras, and leaving Firefoot in Winfrid's care, Éomer walked up to the Golden Hall. Offering him the welcome cup, Frithuswith stepped out on the terrace, and he listened to her prattle about what had happened in Edoras during his absence. But as soon as the door of his study closed behind him, he went for his desk, only to confirm what he had already known: There was no letter from Lothíriel.

There was one letter though, and looking at the signet, he recognized it as a private letter from Aragorn, King Elessar of Gondor. Slumping down on his chair, still in mail and boots, he started to read, his face soon clouding at the news he received.

Éomer had never fostered the illusion that by winning at the Black Gate, war would be over for evermore, but he had not expected trouble to start that soon again. The news his friend and brother in arms sent were daunting: Rhun, Khand, Harad, Umbar, there was no realm east or south of Gondor that did not seem to be champing at the bit to retaliate upon Gondor for the humiliation of the lost war.

Disgruntled, he tapped his fingers on the desk, his mouth a thin, angry line. Why could fate not let them take a breath? Just a short moment of life in between the blows of death, a little more than what was absolutely needed to compensate the losses in men and horses in the last war. He could not lead his Riders into any other battle that soon, not if they were to survive as a people.

Pushing back his chair in rampant frustration, not caring that it toppled over, he went to the dark window, the letter in hand. Leaning his forehead against the cold pane, he tried to gather himself. He felt tired. Tired of battle and war. Never before in his life had he longed that much for nothing else but a peaceful life.

Life…well-toiled earth... fertile fields, barley turning them into golden seas... blooming gardens... orchards full of fruit... thriving herds roaming the lush plains... and the only moans he longed to hear were those of his wife in the throes of passion. _ Was he asking too much, longing to sink himself into her sweetness? _With sudden resolve he pushed himself off the windowsill. He had to stop being pathetic.

He gritted his teeth, bunching the letter in his fist. Aragorn was handling this the only way possible. They had to stay informed, get prepared. There was no imminent danger of an attack as their enemies also had to recuperate from their losses. Yet they could cope with it much better. He sighed. He found it difficult to grasp the immense vastness of the lands east and south of the territory he knew, had marvelled at Aragorn's description at Cormallen, and his friend's explanation that even the stars were different there had caused a feeling of uncertainty.

How many tribes, how many people were out there, preparing to sweep off everything he knew and held dear in one angry wave? Éomer thoughtfully tapped his front-teeth with his knuckles. They needed time. At least three years to regain a halfway acceptable contingent of men and horses … and even then they only stood a chance if they could concentrate their forces at one point.

He knew well that Aragorn's spies and diplomats worked untiringly to use the existing rivalries between realms and ethnic groups to split off important parties and launch all kinds of negotiations to form new alliances with Gondor. But it was also clear that by no means all could be convinced to see a treaty with Gondor as the best solution for every realm involved.

Their only hope for the moment lay in the fact that, without the uniting will and force of the Black Lord, the age-old enmity between Khand and large parts of Far Harad had come to the surface again, an enmity that was as least as profound as the one both realms held against Gondor.

Harondor and Near Harad were debatable in their loyalties. And even amongst the tribes settling there was little love, and it was not at all uncommon that a dispute about pasture and water supplies turned into open war. But many of the lords and leaders of those areas hated Umbar, their realms having fallen victim to perpetual raids of the corsairs and their cronies.

So King Elessar's one and only chance was to keep all those different hostile groups from uniting against Gondor. The corsairs of Umbar were already out again, raiding the coasts of Harondor and Near Harad, though the bulk of their fleet had been destroyed or confiscated at Pelargir during the war. And that was where Aragorn wanted to put his foot down. His foremost intention was to build up the Gondorean navy with the ambitious aim to conquer Umbar. And for the time being, what warships could be found in Pelargir and Dol Amroth were out at sea to head off the corsairs' ships and protect the coasts, both of Gondor and Near-Harad, thus securing the approval and probable alliance of the coastal lords and tribes that were suffering from the raids of the corsairs.

Éomer had never paid much attention to that part of Middle Earth - the actual problems he had had to deal with being the direct borders of the Mark, with Hillmen and Saruman's Uruks invading in the west and Orks from Mordor from the east – but now the world he had known seemed to have become much smaller.

He was still staring out into the night when, after a short rap at the door, Frithuswith entered, as always without waiting to be called in. Giving the toppled-over chair not more than a side glance, she put the tray she was carrying on the desk and then picked up the piece of furniture. Without further ado she addressed the king. "You'd better get out of that mail and have a bite." Stepping up behind him, she unfastened the clasps at his neck, and when he had removed belts and sword, she assisted him out of the hauberk with expert hands.

Watching her put the mail shirt on the weapon stand, Éomer wondered, how many times she had helped Théodred remove his mail and how many more the king himself, Théoden Cyning, over forty years ago, when she had entered the king's household as Théodred's wet-nurse after Queen Elfhild's death in childbed. She had always been there for the king and his family, had been there for Éowyn and himself the day Théoden had brought them to Meduseld after their mother's death, and to both of them she had become the one to go to for motherly comfort.

Turning round to him, she unceremoniously seated herself in one of the upholstered chairs, motioning to the tray. "Eat, drink and stop brooding. It will not change anything, just give you a headache."

Reluctantly he sat down. There was a tankard of ale, some bread and butter, a wedge of cheese and some slices of apple… not much had changed as far as food went since his times as a young Rider.

"You talked to Winfrid's grandfather?"

He sighed. "I did, but we have come to no solution. The boy certainly is intelligent but ..."

Shaking her head, she interrupted him. "He is. But that is not the most important thing about him. He is committed to any task he has taken up and he is able to imagine himself in his counterpart's place. He has the mettle for a good counsellor."

Éomer shrugged. "He is too young for anything like that, and you know it. I need to find a solution that has an effect now, not in the far future. There is war threatening at Gondor's borders, and I will follow King Elessar's call. I need a squire, not a midget."

She frowned. "How soon?"

Putting the tankard back on the table, he shrugged. "That's still not sure. Aragorn is trying to find allies in Near Harad and Harondor and I hope we will have some more summers to recuperate before the South starts to cause real trouble, but Winfrid will not start to grow like a beanstalk all of a sudden if he hasn't done so up to now."

She nodded. "Certainly not. But don't you rush it. There are enough young, well-trained Riders who will adapt in no time to the task as your squire, so keep the boy for the time being; he has to deal with enough problems already."

He nodded his agreement, but with the uneasy feeling that they were just postponing the problem instead of tackling it.

"What about the Westfold?" Old she may be, but her voice was strong and her eyes clear. How many times had Théodred and he sat in secret council with her during Théoden's bewitchment, admiring the lowly-born woman's bright and practical intelligence? She surely knew what held the Mark together.

"Erkenbrand says most of the Dunlendings have moved further north, as the Isen has no fish anymore. There's just one small group left on the opposite bank of the Isen close to one of Sigward's garrisons, but if the winter does not get too hard, nobody expects them to give any trouble. There are certainly no Hillmen left between Isen and Adorn. I talked to Erkenbrand and Sigward about removing our people as well for some time, just leaving the garrisons up there."

Thoughtfully the old woman chewed her lower lip. "That certainly makes sense. I just wonder why that group stayed behind. They must have had a reason not to have left with the others. And even if they are no threat right now, hunger can be a cruel master and who knows what will happen when their supplies grow meagre close to the end of winter."

"Pha! What forces do they have? They don't represent any danger."

She shook her head. "Not at the moment, but hunger can make people desperate." Looking up, she held his gaze. "What would you do, Éomer King, if you saw your children starve? Would you shrink from the risk, or would you try anything to feed them? If there really is but a small group, it might not be a bad idea to send them some supplies as a token of neighbourly help once the winter has set in, to keep them from raiding."

"I'm not feeding Hillmen to buy peace. And what will come of it in the future? Now they are weak, but a wolf is a wolf, and the whelp you feed today might bite off your hand tomorrow once he has grown strong enough."

Heaving a deep breath, she shook her head but did not gainsay him.

Reaching for a slice of bread and some cheese, he continued. "Aragorn says the roads running north and west will be much more frequented in the future, and already now there is more traffic towards Arnor than has been in the last centuries. Along the roads life will change and the Dunlendings will have to change with it. They'll have to give up their old ways of living if they want to survive."

"And so do we, Éomer," the old housekeeper sighed.

Éomer nodded, chewing vigorously. "We live in times of change and the Eorlingas will be affected as well. Always great events have caused changes, not only in the lives of people but they have changed the people themselves."

For a while she said nothing, but then she tilted her head, her glance sharp on him. "Just tell me, Éomer, what is this they tell me about you carrying the first grain into that béowbur? It can't be true, can it?"

He swallowed. "It is true, Frithuswith. I broke into Erce's ritual at Baeccotlif."

The old woman raised an eyebrow enquiringly, but she did not ask, just waited. Finally Éomer continued to speak, hesitantly as the entire importance and weightiness of his action only now started to dawn on him. "I never meant to. It was no idea, no thought, rather a feeling… and it was just there, in my brain, my heart. I supplicated the priestess… and she agreed." He sighed with a wry smile. "As it is now, if anything goes amiss with next year's crop they will have my hide."

"And if things go well they will gild your balls." He had not heard Éothain enter the room and now shot him a disgruntled glance.

Frithuswith gave a short snort of laughter. "So he was impressive, wasn't he?"

Turning serious all of a sudden, Éothain nodded. "He certainly was. Gave us the creeps. I don't know what had suddenly pricked him, but I was really shocked when he started to strip. But when he came out of that béowbur again … Béma, that moment we would all have followed him right into the very fangs of Morgoth." He shook his head as if he still could not believe what had occurred. "He really looked like he had stepped out of the myths."

Éomer raked his hands through his hair. Éothain's words made him feel uncomfortable, more so as the strange feeling of other-worldliness was still so vivid. He knew that something had happened to him there and then but he did not feel able to grasp it, did not want to, fearing the enormity behind it.

Looking up, he found Frithuswith's gaze on him. Frithuswith, who had seen through him from the very first day he had arrived at Meduseld, sullen and hurt, feeling bereft and forsaken, overstrained with the care for his little sister, stunned by the sight of that spitfire of a girl turned into a sobbing bundle.

Rising from her chair, the old housekeeper nodded. "There seems to be more in it and anyway you'll have to find your own path ..." A smile crinkled her face and she added: "Éomer Cyning."

For a split second he wished she had used the old "boy" or even "scoundrel", but then he realised that it did not matter. Whatever name and title he would bear, Frithuswith would remain his worthy friend and counsellor.

**ooo**

Two days later the messenger from Dol Amroth Éomer had so desperately been waiting for arrived late in the evening, just as he was in his study, discussing King Elessar's missive with Eáldread, his chief counsellor. Having dismissed the carrier into Frithuswith's care, Éomer put the official letter on the desk and tucked the beige envelope away in his tunic, ignoring Eáldread's knowing glance.

Elphir's letter was one of those that profoundly bored him, though he felt some dutiful twitching of his conscience for being bored. Written by an official scribe, it not only sported the usual amount of titles and display of devotion, but was also written in such a pompous tone that he found it nearly unbearable. Yet it held contents of utter significance, informing him about an agreement Elphir had reached with the most important merchants of the Falas concerning the maintenance of the roads to the Dunharg passage. Scanning the script, Éomer realised that roadworks in Rohan would only be necessary for the way down Harrowdale to the ford of the Snowbourn outside Edoras, where the new road hit the ancient Great West Road.

He handed the letter to Eáldread, and the old man read it with raising interest and finally nodded approvingly. "We may have lost a stronghold at Dunharg, with the passage open, but certainly the benefit for our people will be great." A wry smile flitted over the counsellor's features. "I'm an old man, Sire, and I need my night's rest, and I think we have discussed everything necessary for tomorrow's council. So why don't we close with that heartening news and call it a day?" The crinkles around his eyes deepening, he added: "I suppose you certainly will have some more reading to do, Éomer King."

**ooo**

As soon as the door closed behind Eáldread, Éomer unfolded the letter, his heart speeding up at the sight of three pages filled in Lothíriel's distinct hand. In vain he admonished himself that this was merely an answer to his own unskilled attempt to thank her, so there was no reason to expect anything special. It just did not work, did not prepare him for the reserved phrasing he soon read.

_Dear Éomer,_

_Your letter arrived yesterday in the evening, and today in the morning the wains with the timber for three more granaries left Dol Amroth. Two more are going to leave tomorrow, and within the coming week at least three more will be ready. I suppose the first consignment will reach Edoras in about eight days, given the speed of the first delivery. _

_Elphir is going to send a messenger to inform you of his arrangements concerning the roads and so I hope this letter will reach you well ahead of the wains. As a matter of fact, the road to the Dunharg passage is not in a very good state, and I'm afraid that it will worsen when the usual heavy rainfalls set in, come November._

_Elphir arranged a meeting with the lords and most important merchants of the Falas to come to an agreement concerning the maintenance of the road. Father assumes there might even be some financial support by the Crown as the road is of importance for Gondor in general._

_There is much road-work done these days, but obviously the repair of the old long-distance roads running north and west are of the foremost importance to the king, as the connection to Arnor is crucial in more than one aspect._

_Anardil informed me the road on the Rohan side down to the valley of the Snowbourn is very steep, but as the ground is solid rock it is not a problem yet. But we do not know if and when frost will set in and make that passage dangerous. Also,I wonder when snow is due to fall, and how much it might hamper traffic through the mountains, or even make it impossible._

He had finished the first page and stopped reading, swallowing with disappointment. _What had he expected? _He realised he was not even sure, he just knew that he had hoped, longed for something personal, some small endearing remark like that post script in her last letter. He heaved a deep breath. How was he to expect anything like that as an answer to his first letter? He had better try to be reasonable. Putting the first sheet on the desk, he went on reading.

_I spoke to Beorhtraed, the scribe about it, but he just shrugged it off, saying that sleighs could be used, but I have to admit that neither Elphir nor I can imagine that._

_Perhaps now you are shaking your head about "those Gondoreans" or are even reconsidering marrying such a hothouse plant as me? But perhaps you aren't and rather are contemplating how to keep me warm (At least I hope so!)._

He blinked. _Was that the same person writing? _He felt he could see her, her smiling eyes, sparkling with mischief, could hear her voice, low-pitched, clear, and yet vibrating with humour. How he loved her challenging banter! Totally absorbed, he continued.

_Only once in my life I have touched snow, and that was just a thin dusting on the slopes of the White Mountains when I was visiting relatives in Lossarnach as a child. We certainly see the snow-covered peaks of the mountains from afar, but I cannot imagine what it would feel like to walk through ankle-deep snow._

_I asked Beorhtraed for his impression, but that man is as dry as the parchment he writes on. He is very effective at teaching me though, and I find his structured approach to his task very helpful. There is no doubt that I will be able to speak at least some Rohirric in March, to be sure on a very "queenly" level, but I'm convinced the more vivid expressions will be learned in no time, living amongst the people of the Mark._

He could not help a chuckle, remembering her fancy for colourful swearwords in any language. He had no doubt she would learn more than he could imagine in no time once she was in Edoras.

_How I wish that this winter was already over!_

He swallowed, his thoughts racing out of control as a bolt of desire shot through him. Without avail he told himself that it was just words; that perhaps he read emotions into them that were not there. It took him a moment till he felt calm enough to continue reading.

_I think of staying in Dol Amroth until the birth of Sídhríl and Elphir's second child and then I will go to Minas Tirith, accompanying Mother, who wishes to stay there as long as Father assists King Elessar as Chief Counsellor. I plan to use the library there to improve my knowledge of the history of Rohan and there also is the King's Messenger-Service to Edoras I plan to exploit brazenly, once the road through the mountains is closed due to snow._

_Winter in Minas Tirith can be quite nice, but I hate it in the summer, when it is only bearable in the upper levels, where at least some breeze lifts the stench of the gutters that clouds the city, though it does little to lessen the stifling heat that makes you feel like living in a marble baking oven._

He pulled a face, remembering the heat when they had come back to bring Théoden King home to the Mark. A baking oven could certainly not be more uncomfortable. He reached for the third sheet, for a split second regretting that it was the last one.

_I would like to send you some of the fruit you seemed to enjoy so much when you were in Dol Amroth, but I doubt that they would reach Edoras in any acceptable state. I will send some oranges later, and I hope you will like them. It's a typical winter fruit and I love it, as it carries some reminders of summer and sun into the greyness of winter._

Oranges...he remembered having seen some as a child. Golden balls, smelling like nothing he had known, but he could not remember their taste. A winter fruit … what a strange concept. And then his mind was filled by the remembrance of the peaches on Tol Cobas, the soft flesh of the fruit, melting in his mouth, the creamy skin of her exposed neck, her pink tongue, as she licked the juice off her fingers. His groin tightened. _Béma, it was words! How could written words do that to him? _Shaking his head, he went on reading.

_Erchirion plans to leave for Edoras as soon as Amrothos is back. He's on a naval mission at the moment, together with Radhruin of Pelargir and some other captains. There have been some corsairs' raids south of Pelargir and King Elessar has decided to go against them with massive retaliation. Father is sure that they are just some dispersed units, but agrees that Umbar is behind it._

Radhruin of Pelargir. Éomer grinned, remembering the flabbergasted expression on said young man's face when Lothíriel had announced being engaged to the King of Rohan. The information in itself accorded with Aragorn's letter and he could well imagine Amrothos on board of one of the mighty warships he had seen in Dol Amroth. He scratched his bearded jawline. Perhaps sailing such a thing demanded a certain madness, so he better be not too critical with the young nobles of the Falas.

_Amrothos dreams of an attack on Umbar itself, once the navy of Gondor has been rebuilt accordingly, seeing himself as some second Thorongil, though Mother thinks it is just the pirate heritage of the Tol Falas side of the family that comes to light._

The pirate heritage? He grinned. That certainly sounded like there was an interesting story behind it. And there was that cup she had offered him on the evening of Mardil's death... Chuckling he read on and then he just stared at the page in disbelief.

_Éomer, I read your letter over and over and I do not know how to express myself without making it sound arrogant, but I'm worried, as you seem to take things so very seriously. Writing certainly is seen in a different light in Rohan and Gondor, but do we have to care about it? You say that you find it difficult to compose a letter, and I thank you all the more for the pains you took doing so for my sake. Éomer, dearest, don't care about composition and the like. Even if you had just written one sentence, telling me that you welcomed the timber, I would have been happy._

_I do not expect you to draft sophisticated letters, you are a warrior and no scribe, and I can well understand that you do not have the time to write or do not feel like doing so. Just tell me that you received my letter, and I will be at ease. Tell me you enjoyed reading it and I will be happy. And if your duties and obligations do not leave you any time, just write my name and I will feel loved._

_Elphir has finished his message and the errand-rider is ready to leave. I suppose you will be back at Edoras when this letter reaches there and I hope it will find you in good health._

_Lothíriel of Dol Amroth_

_PS: Anardil told me you stroked the timber, when Master Calimab showed it to you. Am I not silly to envy a wooden beam? L._

Reading that last sentence over and over until he felt intoxicated by the emotion it displayed, he heaved a sigh. How could she do that to him by nothing more than words? Words written down on paper, and yet he seemed to hear her speaking them, her voice low and raspy, breathless with passion. How he loved that voice, that slight southern accent, that made the consonants sound harsher, the vowels more accentuated, giving the Common Speech a certain facet of determination.

Normally Imrahil and his children spoke Westron without any tinge, but he had heard the accent as well with Erchirion, when his friend had been drunk, and it had been such a funny contrast to his otherwise slurred pronunciation. And Lothíriel? The accent had no doubt been there in the garden, but he had also noticed it on the beach of Tol Cobas, when they had talked about her brothers and about her wish to have children of her own, when emotion had stirred her and she had just been herself. His hands stroked over the beige page. _Cream-coloured skin in the fluttering shade of the old plane tree..._. An enchantress she was, her spell woven with words. He would never achieve anything like that. His gaze wandered over the page again and then one sentence caught his eye: "_... just write my name and I will feel loved."_

A huge grin on his face, he reached for a large piece of vellum and took up the quill. _Lothíriel... _His best hand, the single letters rather drawn than written. Still grinning he continued: _Lothíriel... _And repeating her name over and over, he covered the entire page.


	5. Chapter 5

Thank you all very much for your feedback. It really is very much appreciated.

**Sep 12 **again fought a fearless battle to improve my spelling, grammar and punctuation and pointed out where my "German phrasing" had _run away with me_. ;-D (Mind you, I really don't know if one could say something like that in English at all.)

**Thanks Sep 12! I'll send you some virtual cake! ;-)**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

At noon the next day, Éomer took a light meal in his rooms. The morning had been spent much to his liking: a long ride, starting at dawn out over the plains that stretched east of Edoras, heading towards the sun that rose over the horizon, a fierce ball of red and orange. He loved those morning rides, when the air seemed fresh and immaculate and the rising sun woke the colours of the plains from their slumber of grey.

He rolled his shoulders tentatively and dipped a chunk of bread into the sauce on his plate. There was a chance he would feel stiff and aching tomorrow, having overtaxed himself a bit at sparring, but probably a hot bath in the evening would prevent the worst. They had checked up on a couple of young Riders who had been recommended by their Éoreds' captains for service in the Royal Guards and he had been pleasantly surprised at their skill.

Council was to start soon and though he was sure of the most important lords' loyalty, it would not be easy for them to accept that it was Gondor's needs the Mark was arming for. He reached for an apple to close his meal. They had lost nearly 2000 Riders in Gondor, let alone the huge number of horses...

He needed his people to understand, not only the lords, if he wanted to keep the spirit of the Riddermark alive. The farmers and herders, the families who had lost loved ones in a faraway country... how were they to understand that the world they knew was changing? That it no longer countervailed against upcoming dangers to patrol their own direct borders? How were simple folk to grasp that their lives were yet influenced by dangers far away?

But then: Had they not all seen the black cloud covering the land, heedless of borders and border patrols? He chewed thoughtfully. There were so many things that influenced the lives of his people that came from somewhere far away, things nobody rendered moot. Not only clouds sailed the sky, no one knowing where they came from, but many birds as well; disappearing in autumn, going to Erce knew what places, and coming back in spring to announce the passing of winter.

But those things did not demand the people's blood and bone. He needed to point out what they got back for their aid, their loyalty, him retaking Eorl's oath. True, there were no more raids for black horses now that the forces of the Black Lord were defeated. And give it some years, they would again be able to trade horses on a large scale. There it was again: Time! They needed some time of peace, and they needed to stabilise the country as much as they could during that time.

Munching the last bite of the apple, he rolled his shoulders. They had lost more than 2000 men during the war, not counting the villagers killed by orcs and hillmen in the raids and skirmishes over the last years, and they were missed everywhere now. True, Gondor had paid a fair wergild for the Riders fallen on the Pelennor and in front of the Black Gate, and many a nice piece of loot had found its way into the Mark, but coin did not till your fields, nor did it warm your bed.

The trade agreement had been a good step forward. The Wold and the remote mountain villages with their sturdy sheep, especially had profited from trading wool at a price no one would have thought possible before the war. And not only raw wool was demanded: There seemed to be a buying frenzy for Rohirric cloth, the Gondorean traders outbidding each other to the joy and pride of the weavers. He thoughtfully sucked his teeth. Perhaps he should encourage weaving even more, thus enabling any adept and diligent widow to achieve a good income to support her family. And would that not be as well a means to employ some of the maimed Riders? He would have to talk this over with Frithuswith before making any submission to the council. They could certainly get more profit out of selling the finished product instead of the raw wool once they had enough workers.

And then there were the pelts. Lynx, fox, mink, beaver... Those Gondoreans had bought even summer skins. Putting the apple core on the plate, he shook his head. What in Middle Earth did they need pelts for in that warm climate they lived in? Had Lothíriel not written that they did not even have snow but up in the mountains? Well, she had mentioned rain, but thoroughly greased linen or leather did a much better job with that.

He shrugged. As long as they paid, it did not bother him if the thick winter pelt of a fox was used to trim the more than revealing neckline of some Gondorean lady's silken dress. He simply found it idiotic. And they had asked for tapestries. Even left purchase orders for next year for tapestries showing scenes of the battles on the Pelennor and in front of the Black Gate.

But how much was that really outweighing the sacrifices? Who would be willing to go to war again that soon? He shrugged. There would always be those who rejoiced in the clash of arms and battle, young men, eager to earn praise and renown, and not to forget, those experienced, war-tested warriors, whose heart leapt high at the sight of a good sword, fighting skills being the most important thing to prove oneself a man. He grinned a little ruefully. It was little more than one year now that he had been forced out of that attitude by fate.

Draining his cup, he finished his meal. He needed to keep his people united if he wanted to achieve a future worth living for everyone in the Mark, lords and commoners alike.

_Listen to the people..._ For a split second he saw her face before his inner eye: angry, eager, lecturing him on how to lead a realm. He smiled. What would it be like to have her at his side in today's council? Her intelligence, her fearless intervening, her diplomatic skills. Lothíriel Queen of the Riddermark... his queen, his support. He had no doubt that she would be able to explain all this, not only to his council but also to the farmers, the craftsmen and the commoners.

And suddenly he saw the first part of her letter in a totally different light. He realised how that first page about the roads to Rohan that he had thought last night to be distanced and emotionless showed her interest in the Mark's development, the connection of both realms and the effective functioning of the trade agreement. The agreement that had cost him, and no doubt Elphir as well, so much work and patience.

He opened the drawer to read her letter once more. Even now there was the desire to search out those parts that had made his blood run hot last night. That saucy remark about him contemplating how to keep her warm, the postscript, expressing her wish to be touched, but at the same time he was able now to read the other parts for what they were - an open display of her mind and abilities: the provident queen, the playful comrade and the loving wife. It was all these facets of her character he admired, loved and needed and yet last night he had merely been desperate for one single hint that she wanted him. He grimaced. They didn't say for nothing that a stiff cock had no conscience.

Shaking his head, he made to put the letter away again. He was to sit in council for the next couple of hours, it would not do to have his mind whirling at what he would do to keep her warm once he had her here at Meduseld.

Opening the drawer, his gaze fell on a linen bundle and carefully he took it out, unfolding the wrapping. A whiff of lavender rose from the faceless rag-doll, as he put the bundle carefully on his desk. How did that little girl fare now, down in the shipyard quarters of Dol Amroth?

The energetic rap at the door announced Frithuswith and within seconds the white-haired housekeeper stood at his elbow to collect the crockery.

"The council is assembled, Éomer King." Beholding the doll, she raised an eyebrow enquiringly, her face displaying a mixture of disgust and curiosity. "What is that?"

"A doll, Frithuswith. Did you never have one as a girl?" He enjoyed the way she huffed at his answer.

"I certainly did. But I did not expect the king of the Mark to have one."

He grinned and stroked the doll's head, just to irk her a bit more. But then he turned sober, and fully removing the wrappings, he took in every inch of the threadbare gift. "You know, when I was in Dol Amroth, this was given to me by a little girl, because she saw I was sad and she wanted to comfort me." He shook his head. He himself would have called his mood angry, even furious then, and that mite had simply seen through it and beheld the hurt and loneliness behind his display of strength and pride. "It had been made for her by her mother when her grandmother had died, to console her, and obviously it had worked." He smiled down at the doll and suddenly a thought hit him. "Frithuswith, I want you to get me a blanket."

"A blanket?" The housekeeper frowned. "What for? There are more than enough ..."

Shaking his head, he interrupted her. "No, Frithuswith, not for me. For Melwen." He pointed at the doll and the old woman's mouth dropped open.

"What? Éomund's Son, tell me what you drank this morning and how much you had of it."

Realising the misunderstanding, he laughed. "Not for the doll. For the little girl. I want to send her a Rohirric blanket before the winter sets in. So find me one fit for a little girl and as well fit to be a king's present."

With deft hands she wrapped the doll and put it back into the open drawer, shaking her head, though a smile crinkled the corners of her eyes. "I will, and now be off to the council, you royal scoundrel."

His hand already on the doorknob, he turned again. "And Frithuswith, do have an eye on Winfrid, please. The boy seems not just a little off-tune. His grandfather has obviously talked to him and it must be difficult for the lad. He was downcast all the way back and did not even sing with the men as usual."

Frithuswith gave a short bellowing laugh. "No, he certainly did not sing, as no doubt everyone would have told him to shut up." Seeing the king's uncomprehending face, she added with a grin: "Breaking of the voice. It's as simple as that. I bet you yourself still remember how awkward it was."

He certainly did. Breaking of the voice! Why had he not thought of that simple reason? Because... He met the old housekeeper's now serious glance. She nodded. "You didn't expect it because he's so small, I know. But he's 14, Éomer, and apart from his height there is nothing wrong with him."

He nodded thoughtfully. No, there obviously was nothing wrong and that made him feel even more like he was letting the boy down unjustifiably. He had to find a satisfying solution. But first things first: The council would be difficult enough.

**ooo**

The sun was already in the west when Éomer finally left the council chamber, exhausted but utterly satisfied. Things had gone much better than he had expected, some of the most important lords having declared their unimpeachable loyalty right at the beginning of the meeting, but the largest surprise had been Eáldread. The chief councillor had supported the alliance with Gondor with a fire and vehemence Éomer had never expected to find in the old man. True, he had been the backbone of Théodred's attempts to at least diminish the Worm's influence and detriment during the time of Théoden King's bewitchment, but he had always been cautious and deliberative. But today he had thrown himself into a veritable battle of words, disarming any potential opponent well before anyone could step up against the king's ideas, plans and wishes. And the old bastard had seemed to enjoy himself mightily, dumbfounding the entire assembly and transmuting some of the mightiest lords of the Mark into the likenesses of quite a good catch of carps, given their bulging eyes and open mouths.

He regretted there was no time to do something about that dratted shoulder of his, but then: What didn't a good king do for his country? And the prospect of a good meal and some even better ale in the company of his friends and followers wasn't too bad either.

**ooo**

It was late when he finally retired to his rooms, having waited till the last of the council members had crawled off to their respective rooms or guest-houses, and though he was tired and more than just a little drunk, he at once spotted the folded blanket on top of his desk. Putting the candle on the desk, he unfolded it: soft, green and yellow wool, woven into intricate patterns. He smiled. Sun and the plains, the patterns of the Mark, to keep a little grubby mite warm and comfortable. But he had to write at least a short note to go with it. With a slightly unsteady hand he reached for quill and vellum and then stopped mid-movement, a wide grin spreading over his face. He would make his scribe write that letter, an official one with all the due paraphernalia and with as many seals as possible affixed to it. A letter from the King of Rohan to Mistress Melwen on behalf of the welfare of Melian, the rag doll. Chuckling, he imagined his scribe's face. And what a kerfuffle there would be in her neighbourhood: the carrier arriving with the blanket and the official letter. The only problem was: How to address the letter? Certainly in her own neighbourhood the little girl was known after her encounter with him, but then: Did her parents know to how read at all? He scratched his chin. Perhaps he had better send both blanket and letter to Lothíriel and ask the princess to have them forwarded to Melwen. But he did not feel up to writing that plea, squiffy as he was. He knew he was a failure at composing letters when he was sober, so he had better abstain from writing if he did not want to make a total ass of himself. And anyway, she deserved better. Instead he again took her letters out of the drawer. Two letters now, two letters to read over and over again, to think and dream of.

Carefully his large, callused hands smoothed out the folds of the paper. How could it be that she affected his life that much after such a short time? How was it that his thoughts and emotions revolved around her in such an all-encompassing way? That she already influenced Rohan's politics without even having set a foot on the soil of the Mark? With a sigh he realised how little he knew about her. And what did she see in him? What did she know about him? He realized that he did not really want to face the answer to those questions, not now anyway.

His lids felt heavy. It had been a long day and he had drunk more than usual, having toasted the future of the realm more than once. He needed to go to bed. Taking the letters with him, he blew out the candle and padded over into his likewise dark sleeping-room. The heavy curtains were drawn back and the dim light of the waning moon outlined the shape of the furniture. Groping his way along the edge of the large four-poster, he shoved the letter under his pillow, together with the dagger he usually wore in his belt. He smirked. Frithuswith had more than once reminded him to stop placing that dagger there at night, lest he frighten his future wife, but he doubted very much that Lothíriel would even so much as raise an eyebrow to it. He stripped, and his eyes having adjusted to the darkness in the room, he looked down at the counterpane covering the royal bedstead. He could not make out the colours, the dark green of the coverlet, just its dark plane, and the lighter surface of the Sun of the Mark, the golden emblem covering the upper third of the bedspread. He grabbed the coverlet to pull it back to the foot of the bed, when suddenly a thought hit him.

What would her naked body look like, lying on it, her cream-coloured limbs sprawled on the dark green, her jet-black mane spread out over the emblem, the shimmering strands following the rays of the sun? He heaved a sigh. One more question he had no answer to. Yet to have this one answered, he just needed to wait.

**ooo**

A sennight later Erchirion arrived in Edoras, mud-covered, soaked from a sudden shower that had surprised him on the slopes of Harrowdale, but otherwise in a splendid mood. After the official welcome in the hall, the two friends soon retired to Éomer's rooms, where Erchirion was served a hearty meal, while servants rushed over to light the fire and ready a bath in the guest house that had been prepared for him.

Watching his brother in arms gobbling down a pork pie, Éomer could not help a grin. Apparently Erchirion had stopped shaving the moment he had left Dol Amroth, and with four days on the road he already sported a promising amount of black stubble up to his cheekbones. If he did not at least try to trim that coppice somehow in the future, not even that prominent Numenorean hook of a nose would stand any chance to peep out of it.

What was it with those Gondorean nobles stopping shaving as soon as they came into closer touch with the Mark? He chuckled, remembering Éowyn's delight at finding Faramir with a well-trimmed beard on their arrival at Minas Tirith the evening before her wedding to the Steward. But then, that bloke was that besotted with his sister, he would have pierced a ring through his nasal cartilage had Éowyn done little more than hint at liking such a thing.

Would he shave if Lothíriel wanted him to? Would she want him to? He could not well do so, the beard, like the uncut hair, being a symbol of his royal standing, but if they were to live in Gondor... would she...? He scratched his bearded jawline. He could not really imagine himself without a beard. Perhaps that was another one of those questions that had better remain unanswered.

Having finished his meal, Erchirion pushed away his plate and stretched his muddied legs. "Blimey, that downpour really gave me some welcome to the Mark."

Éomer laughed. "They say that when it rains on a wedding day while the bride is lead to her future home, every drop that wets the bride's wreath means a healthy child. So as it rained at your arrival in the Riddermark, who knows... It might be an omen. Let's see how many expectant mothers will there be in your trail."

With feigned shock Erchirion covered his crotch with both hands. "Look, mate, I certainly do not mind helping out a little, but I didn't know you would make me compensate the entire loss of population Rohan had through the war."

Refilling Erchirion's cup, Éomer gave his friend an assuring wink. "Don't you worry, I'll make a royal announcement that they are to be very careful with your poor princely willy and treat it as the Gondorean dainty it surely is. And though Elfhelm's troops did what they could in Mundburg to help Gondor overcome her casualties, we won't hold you responsible to fill up our numbers with the same dedication."

Leaning back in his chair, Erchirion raised his cup in mock salute. "Ah, the indefatigable Riders of Rohan, ready for a tantivy day and night. And now you expect poor me to reimburse the Mark because they ran dry in Minas Tirith."

"Poor you! How I pity you." Laughing, Éomer filled his own cup. "So Amrothos is safely back on solid ground, I suppose?"

Erchirion shook his head. "No, at this moment he's probably out at sea again. I just hope that the general praise doesn't go to his head. He was quite a success, wiping out that Umbarian filth, he and that Radhruin bloke." Cocking his head, he enquired: "But how did you know he was out, anyway?"

"Lothíriel wrote to me, telling me you wouldn't leave before Amrothos had come ashore again from hunting down some corsairs."

"I see. You seem to have become mighty busy with writing lately, you two." Erchirion grinned. "But I would really like to know what you told her in that letter she received some nine days ago."

Nine days ago? That could only mean the letter he had written at Baeccotlif. Éomer tried to keep his facial expression even. "Why? Did she say anything?"

Erchirion took another swig. "No, she actually didn't say anything." His grin now turning into an obvious smirk, he looked at Éomer and then continued to talk, seemingly enjoying each detail of his description. "The carrier arrived while we sat at lunch, and she didn't even wait for the meal to finish, but opened your letter at once and started to read, blushed, and then suddenly shrieked like she had found a jellyfish in her bed, and then she started to laugh till she was in tears. And then she rushed over to Mother and showed her a certain line, and Mother laughed too, saying something like: "You asked for it."And then she showed the line to Sídhríel, and that woman shrieked even louder and laughed that hard that my poor brother was worried she would give birth early."

During Erchirion's tale Éomer's hand had clutched around his goblet, the knuckles standing out white, in a desperate attempt not to lose control. _Could that be? Had she really laughed, shown his letter to the others to make them laugh, too? _He drew a slow breath to clear his head. _It just couldn't __be. Hadn't she always stepped in on his behalf in Dol Amroth, trying to keep him from embarrassment? _With some effort he shook himself free from the nasty thoughts that were creeping up in his mind, and told himself that he was once again jumping to a premature conclusion. It could not be otherwise, not after what had happened between them, not after the trust they had felt in each other.

"You don't have an explanation for that odd behaviour, have you?" Erchirion's eyes were still on him, twinkling with laughter.

"Should I?" He barely managed to keep his voice calm and casual.

Erchirion shot him a knowing look. "I just thought. They wouldn't tell us men anything about it, nor let us have a peek."

"I'm sorry, I really don't know what I did to entertain the ladies of your family thus." Éomer could not keep the edge out of his voice, and Erchirion slammed his goblet down on the table, guffawing.

"Always the kingly protector! You would not give her secret away, would you? Rather throttle me like you wanted to that moron Amrothos. I just wonder which of you two love-birds is smitten the worst. Let me check: Do you carry her letters around with you? And read them at every fitting or unfitting occasion?"

Not understanding anything, Éomer felt a slight blush creep into his cheeks, and seeing it, Erchirion rubbed his hands with glee. "Well, Brother, where do you keep her letters then, as you don't wear a bodice to hide them in, to have a peek at them any moment you think you are alone? You should start using paper instead of vellum, because with more letters arriving, as they certainly will, people will soon take her for pregnant with that bulky bundle under her gown."

Before Éomer could answer, there was a knock at the door, and a servant announced that the bath for the prince was ready. Rising, Erchirion stretched. "That will be a real treat. Oh, and before I forget, my sister bid me to give you this." Taking the beige envelope out of the pouch at his belt, he smilingly held it out to Éomer. "So perhaps at least you, of all men, will learn why she laughed."

Even when the door had closed behind Erchirion, Éomer stood for a while, staring at the letter in his hand. _Was she really carrying his letters in her bodice? But why had she laughed, shown his letter...no, a certain line of it, to the other women? Why to the women only, and not to the men? Lunch always had been a private, a family meal in Dol Amroth, so there would have been none but her father and brothers. And what had Lady Geliris meant with that remark? And what had possessed him to feel that irked, that uncertain, that vulnerable? _With a pang he realised that he was back to last night's thoughts: He knew so little about her, and what was even more important, he did not know what she really saw in him.

He shook his head. He would have to ask her, give them a chance to come to know each other better. Had they not been in accord on so many things? And if they found out where they differed, was it not preferable to find out now, to have time to get used to it?

He turned the letter and looked at the seal. Her signet: the Dol Amroth Swan, flanked by two flowers... Lothíriel. Slowly his thumb stroked over the emblem before he broke it. _Trust, the basis of any loving marriage... He had asked her to trust him... He needed her to trust him, to be able to trust himself. He loved her. And whatever there was to come, they would face it together._

Carefully he opened the letter, spread out the pages in front of him, feeling like a diver before the plunge off a cliff, his heart beating a wild tattoo against his ribcage. And then he started to read.

**ooo**

_Dear, dear Éomer,_

_I am still breathless with mirth. Your letter makes me giddy like some potent wine, I even find it difficult to sit down and write._

_Oh, Uinen's sweet mercy, what did I do? I still cannot stop laughing. Éomer, believe me, I did not know your people would read the carvings like that, but be assured that I am more than willing to make the announcement come true. Six children! Goodness, what do you think of me now?_

_I showed your lines to Mother and Sídhríl, as I had discussed the sending of the timber and especially the carvings with them, and Sídhríl had had misgivings that a people who excelled in carving as the Rohirrim do, might frown at any attempt from Gondor._

_I drew the emblems of Rohan and Dol Amroth because I wanted my gift to be clearly connected with our marriage, but just the emblems alone looked so official and therefore I wanted to add something personal as well. That was why I decided to put my flowers. Well, and as Beorhtraed had told me that barley was the most common grain in the Mark, and that even the word for a granary , béowbur, was derived from it, I decided to add an ear of barley on each side._

_In Gondor, wheat, as the most commonly grown grain, stands for prosperity. Therefore, I did expect the barley ear to be something of a beneficial token, but it did not hit me that there might be such a difference in the meaning in Rohan. It was when I had finished the drawing that it struck me to add some more ears, as the ones I had already drawn looked so nice with the flowers, and that is why I ended up with three on each side. _

_Master Calimab assured me that he and his craftsmen would be able to do it for all the beams, but Elphir, the ever careful politician, advised me to first talk it over with Beorhtraed, to learn if the Rohirrim might think such carvings unfitting on a granary._

_I now know why the poor scribe's eyes went as wide as saucers and he blushed like a drunken maiden, but then he assured me a hundred times that, yes, the Rohirrim would like the design very much indeed; yes, the carvings were most fitting for a granary, and yes, Éomer King would certainly agree._

_So I pushed my misgivings at his odd behaviour aside and ordered the browpieces to be carved. It was only when the first granary was about to be delivered that I got a bit doubtful again, and that is why I asked Anardil to accompany the timber as my messenger._

_I was so delighted to learn that you were really pleased with my gift, not only by your letter, but also through his tale (yes, I admit having sent a spy – will you regard it as high-treason?), but while I am able to read your letter again and again, unfortunately I cannot make him tell me about you receiving my gift repeatedly, without making a complete fool of myself._

_Dear Éomer,_

_I did not finish my letter the day before yesterday as Amrothos' vessel and three more ships that had been in the Southern campaign came into port late in the evening, and things went abuzz like a beehive in Dol Amroth._

_I know you think him a nuisance, but I am happy to have him back unhurt and (what certainly means more to him) victorious._

_Radhruin went directly to Pelargir and everybody expects shipbuilding to be taken up on a larger level soon, as King Elessar will certainly agree on a major campaign against Umbar, now that the support of our fleet through the most important lords of Near Harad seems to be certain._

_I am sure that Erchirion will report all the details to you -or will already have done so when you read this letter- as he is going to leave this morning for Edoras._

_How I wished I could go with him (perhaps dressed up as his squire), but much more I would like you to be here at this moment, as it is one of those enchanted moments in late summer, just before the rising sun springs into the sky._

_I would take your hand and lead you down to the beach, and barefoot we would follow the receding tide over wide stretches of immaculate sand. (No urchins, I promise!)_

_But I would not tell you to braid your hair, nor to cover it against the gusty wind, and I would watch as it streamed around your head, the colour of barley, living sunrays, the joy of my eye and heart._

_And when we came back to the castle, I would lead you to the bench under the old plane tree, and I would make you sit down, so I could comb the tangles out of your hair, slowly and softly, none of my movements to hurt you, and finally I would make you lay down in the shade of the plane and I would place your head in my lap, my fingers gliding through your mane, till sleep finally overcame you and my eyes would feast on you unashamedly, my golden warrior._

_I dream of you with my eyes open. I remember you, Éomer of the Mark._

_Yours, Lothíriel_

_Erchirion is ready to leave and I nearly get frightened as I read my own letter now. But then I feel that you will understand me, that there is no need to be ashamed for what I feel._

_There is no time to write more._

_How I dread the winter._

_Lothíriel_

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><p><strong>annotations:<strong>

**tantivy:** very fast gallop


	6. Chapter 6

Sorry for making you wait much longer than usual for an update, but RL can really be nasty and computers do not always do what their owners expect them to do.:-(

I'd like to thank all of you who are still following the story, especially those who were so kind as to drop me a line (and sometimes much more than just a line;-)) to give me some feedback. You really make me happy.

9th Feb. With all computer muddles solved, I was finally able to erase all those language mistakes **sep12** pointed out to me. Thanks a lot, you are such a great help!

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><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

With a quick movement Winfrid evaded his opponent's blow, turning the stroke harmless by letting it glide off his shield. Though much shorter than the other boy, his swiftness made up for the lacking reach. His riposte came quick as lightning, causing his combatant to give ground with a surprised grunt.

Sitting on one of the fences that sectioned the training grounds, Éomer watched his squire spar with one of the boys of his age that had started training in summer as a preparation for becoming Riders, once they reached the age of sixteen. He himself had sparred with Erchirion before, who now sat beside him, watching the unlike opponents with unfeigned interest. Giving a low whistle, the Gondorean grimaced approvingly. "Blimey, that runt is fast."

Sweat trickled down Winfrid's nose, but otherwise the boy showed no sign of exhaustion. Graceful as a dancer he avoided the next stroke, using his combatant's momentum to bring him off balance and land his own blow. The taller and heavier boy's fury was obvious, causing him to charge imprudently, while Winfrid stayed concentrated and focussed. But Éomer's critical eye did not miss the slight wobble of his sword-tip. The boy was no doubt tiring. He had to make the final strike soon or the other boy would get the upper hand.

Ducking a charge, Winfrid stepped aside, whirled round, and with a sudden movement of his wrist, broke through his opponent's guard, jamming the blunted tip under his chin. "You're dead!" His voice cracked, making his exclamation sound like some strangled cock's crow. Laughing, Wulfstan, the master-at-arms, strode up to the boys. "You had both better stop it for now. It's no use overdoing things. Hand the swords in and get you gone."

While the two boys ambled over to the collecting point, Éomer and Erchirion made for their horses.

"That boy is splendid. Fast as a striking snake." Erchirion chuckled. "It's just good that Amrothos has not seen that or you would not have your squire for very long. He would simply abduct him."

Feeling utterly uncomfortable, Éomer shrugged. "He lacks the reach and the strength for sword fighting. He will not always be able to launch the crucial stroke that fast." Raising his hand, he stopped his friend's objection. "Don't get me wrong. I see myself that he is fast and deft, and his fighting skills are fine for a boy his age. And I know he can be as dogged as any terrier. It's his height I'm worried about. We have to accept that he'll never be as tall and strong as the average Rohir."

Erchirion waved his hand dismissively. "So what? Train him at daggers. I bet he's up to that."

Éomer grimaced. "The problem is that he won't be fit to be my squire once we ride against the South..."

"Pha, you would have to take an older man anyway. War is nothing for lads his age, if it can be avoided. And anyway, why do you persist on the boy being your squire?" Not impressed at all, Erchirion swung into the saddle.

"He is Lord Erwig's son. That was Erkenbrand of Westfold's youngest brother, who was killed in an ambush five years ago," Éomer added, seeing his friend's incomprehension. "He's a lord's youngest son. Traditionally there is no other career for him in the Mark than becoming a Rider. At least no other without losing face."

"Bollocks." Erchirion seemed totally unperturbed. "Use your connections with Gondor."

Having mounted, Éomer nodded. "I had thought to ask Aragorn or Imrahil, I'm just not sure what the boy is up to, and how he would take it to have to go to Gondor."

Erchirion shook his head. "You had better go for the second line to keep him out of too much attention and probable jealousy. Get him an appointment with Amrothos. Or Faramir if you don't trust that maniac brother of mine."

"Faramir?" Éomer snorted. "Are you mad? How will that stub of a boy ever be able to draw one of those longbows?"

"Blimey, you are as wrong-headed as a drunken mule. Who's talking about bows? Daggers, Brother, daggers. I'll bet you, he'll be a humdinger at daggers in no time." Shooting his friend a critical look, Erchirion added: "And don't you tell me a dagger is no lordly weapon. Within Gondor's Navy it's as esteemed as any sword."

Éomer nodded thoughtfully. "You certainly are right. The ideal weapon always depends on the grounds you fight on. I'll think it over. Perhaps writing to Faramir is not a bad idea at all." He grinned wryly. "I have to admit I would feel more at ease if I knew the boy was on solid ground and not on some ship with that copy of an Umbarian pirate."

"So Loth has told you?"

"Told me what?" Éomer raised his eyebrows. "About the Tol Falas side of the family?" He shook his head, when Erchirion's face split into a big grin. "No, she mentioned it in connection with Amrothos, but she did not explain her remark. I thought that there was quite an interesting story behind it, but have not asked her so far."

Erchirion chuckled. "Well, the thing goes back as far as the kin-strife, when Castamir's cronies made some last stand on Tol Falas in 1448 and..."

They were interrupted by Winfrid, who came cantering up to them. "Sire, they are coming." His face in a wide, excited grin, the boy pointed out over the plain. There, far away, near the horizon a grey whirl of dust could be seen.

"Who's coming?" Erchirion gave his friend an enquiring look.

Éomer grinned. "You'll see soon enough, Princeling. We'd better hurry to be in the yard before them." Without further explanation he nudged Firefoot forward and the others could do nothing but follow suit.

They were coming! Éomer felt the thrill of anticipation. That would be a spectacle confirming the Riddermark's reputation, and he was sure Erchirion would enjoy it exceedingly. The selection of young Riders for the King's Guard was closed, and now one of the most important rites to affirm their new position would follow. He breathed deep, his eyes shining with prideful joy: Hengest Giefu.

Twelve young Riders would be gifted with a stallion from the royal herds as a token and reward for the absolute loyalty they had sworn as members of the King's Guard. As a matter of course, every one of them had provided his own horse, the one he had ridden in his previous years of service in the Éoreds, the reliable interaction of mount and Rider being one of the criteria that had been strictly checked as a precondition. But now they would each receive their future mount: a young stallion that had not been backed yet. Besides their duty in the guard it would be their responsibility to train the horse, to break it in and form the mutual bond between warhorse and Rider the Eorlingas took their pride in.

And there in the distance they were coming: twenty-four young stallions brought up from the meadows in the East Emnet, all in their fourth year, as the horses of the Mark were a slow-maturing race, and though already ground worked thoroughly and trained to pull, to strengthen their muscles, none had ever borne a rider yet. It was today at noon, when the sun was highest, that horses and Riders would meet, choosing each other.

Breathing deep, Éomer rose in the saddle to look back before the road dipped in between the mounds. The cloud of dust was fast approaching, but still he could not spot induvidual horses.

Soon they reached the large yard in front of the stables and Erchirion's eyes widened in surprise at the display of birchen garlands bedecking the door frames of the stables. In anticipation of the event, small groups of people stood in the sideways and on the porches opposite the stables, well out of the way. Only Lynet and Hrothgar were standing near the trough, the stable lad obviously eager to convince her about his qualities, deaf and blind to anything going on around him. Éomer chuckled. They had better get out of the yard. Soon the horses would come charging into it, setting the whole place ablaze with their excited whinnying and thundering hoof beats, milling around the large trough in front of the stables before the whole tumult calmed down and the horses would be watered and groomed and made ready for the ceremony.

Knowing how much his friend admired anything Rohirric, he wanted Erchirion to have a good view of the impressive spectacle and therefore left it to the stable hands to care for their horses when they had dismounted. Pulling his friend over to the staircase of a larger building that would give them a good view over the entire yard, as well as down the lane the horses would come charging up, he looked back to the stable and could not help a grin. A stable lad had led Erchirion's gelding into the stables, while Winfrid had cared for his own horse, but Firefoot stubbornly refused to be handled by the second lad, who tried to get hold of his reins.

But at that moment Winfrid reappeared at the door, and having exchanged a few remarks with the stable hand, he went up to the destrier, while the other lad disappeared. Unhurriedly, the boy approached the stallion and stroked his muzzle before picking up the reins to lead him into the stable. The affectionate nudge of the large head nearly knocked him over, but Winfrid just laughed and patted the big grey's massive chest.

From afar the first noise of the horses could be heard, and then they came into sight, rounding a corner in the lane and finally heading for the yard in full gallop. Four horses abreast, they thundered up the main lane that lead to the royal stables and further on to the barracks.

Éomer felt joy and pride well up inside, beholding the splendid display of beauty and untamed power. Twenty-four massive equine bodies, necks craned, manes flying, ninety-six hooves, pounding the earth. The very image of the Mark's essence. Out of the corners of his eyes he peeked at Erchirion beside him, his heart leaping high at the Gondorean's evident amazement and delight. And then his heartbeat stopped.

Form behind the big trough in the middle of the yard an infant crawled into sight, pausing now and then, swaying on hands and knees, blissfully unaware of the approaching danger. Choking back a cry of despair, Éomer jumped down the stairs, spurting frantically towards the child in the yard. He would be too late! He knew he would, as would any other bystander, the distance being too large.

And then Firefoot's whinny stopped him in his tracks. Charging across the yard, the big grey headed towards the rolling in avalanche of galloping horses, egged on by Winfrid's yelling voice. The boy had not bothered to mount the stallion, but clung with his left hand onto the pommel of the saddle, one foot in the right side stirrup. Holding the reins in his right hand, he urged Firefoot between the approaching horses and the child.

For a fleeting moment Éomer saw Firefoot jerk to a halt, while Winfrid picked up the crying baby before they were lost to his sight in a maelstrom of moving horses. Lynet, who had stood paralysed, watching with her mouth hanging open, screamed hysterically, and before the lad at her side could grab her, she plunged into the melee, desperately crying her child's name.

"Morgoth's balls!" Panting, Erchirion turned up at Éomer's side, "What the..."

"Cól, cól, cniht." A man's sonorous voice rose over the din, as he nudged his own horse, a large-framed sorrel gelding, towards Firefoot, who still stood motionless. Guiding the young stallions into the upper part of the yard, the herders soon cleared the space around the trough, leaving behind a totally unperturbed Firefoot, a hysterically sobbing Lynet, who hastily took her wailing child out of Winfrid's arms, and a herdsman, who now had dismounted and was fuming with rage. Éomer recognised Ceadda, a tall man in his early forties, lean, almost wiry, the unchallenged authority for anything concerning horses in the East Emnet.

"You stupid slut! How dare you risk your child's life like that!" Ceadda's face was nearly as red as his flaming hair. Staring at him with frightful eyes, Lynet started to tremble, clutching her child closer to her. Sensing her mother's fright, the little girl's wail grew even louder, causing the man to growl. "And shut that brat up, woman! My ears are falling off."

Nervously, Lynet shove aside her apron, and loosening the lace that held the neckline of her simple gown, offered her breast to the crying child. Soon the frightened screams turned into soft snuffling and suckling noises, only interrupted by a little hiccup now and then in the aftermath of the violent sobs.

Ceadda frowned. "Why did you put the child down in the first place?"

Looking up, her face a mirror of fear and uncertainty, Lynet tried to defend herself. "Hrothgar told me to."

_Hrothgar!_Éomer felt his hackles rise. _That horny git knew that the stallions were coming._ He would have a word with the lad after the ceremony, and not only a word.

Ceadda snorted. "That bloke who thought it better to split, once he had got you into trouble? Why did you heed that dolt? You should know how fast that mite can crawl."

Lynet shook her head. "But she's never crawled before. I didn't know she can. She's but seven months old."

Ceadda's eyes softened. "She has a name?"

Lynet nodded. "Leofa. I named her Leofa."

"You?" Ceadda's eyebrow's shot up to his hairline. "Shouldn't the father name the child?"

Lynet averted her eyes, cradling her child's head to her breast. "I don't know who the father is," she mumbled reluctantly.

"Ah, I see." Ceadda pulled a face. "It's a bloody pity that's always the whores who have the healthiest brats."

"She is no whore." With the audacity of an enraged terrier, Winfrid stepped between Lynet and the man.

Ceadda curled his lips derisively. "And who are you? Her brother?"

Intending to intervene, Éomer moved closer, but Osulf, the stable master, who was standing beside the Eastfolder, anticipated him.

"Leave him alone, Ceadda. The boy is right." Nodding encouragingly to Winfrid and Lynet, Osulf put his hand on the herder's shoulder. "She doesn't gain anything out of it, nor does she provoke the lads. She's simply too dumb to say no, when they come and beg for a shag."

Ceadda looked her up and down and shook his head in disbelief. "Man, those plonkers are lucky."

Osulf nodded. "They surely are. Winfrid, take Firefoot into the stable."

Still scowling, Winfrid clicked his tongue, and made for the stable door without so much as looking back, the great stallion following at his heels.

"Béma's mighty horn!" Ceadda's eyes went as wide as saucers. "That bugger of a stallion has given me nightmares! And here he follows heel like a dog, and to a midget! Who's that snotty-nosed ankle-biter anyway?

"Lord Erkenbrand's nephew, Ceadda."

Hearing his king's voice, the herdsman froze and then turned around slowly. "Hail, Éomer King. I see you've got yourself quite an enchanter to groom that rack of a destrier." A wry smile spread over Ceadda's weather-beaten face. "Erkenbrand's nephew you say? Blimey, the first useful thing I see coming out of the Westfold. It's a bloody pity you found him first. That runt would be quite a success in the East Emnet."

Laughing, Éomer rounded the trough, Erchirion in tow. Hearing the laughter, the little girl stopped suckling and looked at the men with big cerulean eyes, her mother's nipple gliding out of between her lips, leaving a small trickle of milk in the corner of the child's rosy mouth.

Éomer blinked, his gaze taking in the tear-smeared faces of both, mother and child, the tiny grubby hands against the paleness of the woman's breast, the sturdy arm that held the child, and he had to swallow at the sudden wave of fierce protectiveness that welled up inside him. Averting his eyes, his gaze fell on Ceadda's face, only to find the same unquestioning commitment displayed in the herder's face.

Before Éomer could say anything, Ceadda cleared his throat, addressing Lynet with a soft voice, belying the rough phrasing: "Wrap your tit up woman, or the milk will curdle."

Lynet frowned, and though she obediently shoved her daughter to the other hip and pulled her gown up, she dared a vexed remark. "You are stupid, you are. Milk can only curdle outside the tit, same with cows and ewes. Don't you know?"

Osulf chuckled: "He's just having you on, Lynet. It's just a joke."

Her frown deepening, she looked straight into the herder's grinning face. "That's a stupid joke."

Still grinning, the Eastfolder nodded. "Yes, it is. You are not that dumb, are you, woman?"

Lynet blushed but stood her ground. "My name is Lynet, not woman. And I'm not dumb."

"Then why do you let those plonkers bonk you?" With a jerk of his head, Ceadda motioned towards the stables. "They have large healthy hands, they should be up to helping themselves."

"They say it's not the same." Lynet shrugged helplessly, obviously at the end of her wits.

"Just leave her alone, Ceadda," Osulf interjected. "Frithuswith has tried a dozen times to make her turn the lads down. It just doesn't work."

Stubbornly, the herder shook his head. "It's the brat that bothers me. You!" His large dirty forefinger

poking her breast, he made sure that he had Lynet's absolute attention. "Lynet, tell me, do you love your baby?"

The woman nodded, without understanding what the tall man wanted with her, and Éomer had to admit he felt nearly as uncomprehending. _What was that old fox up to?_

"I see. Woman... Lynet, you've got yourself a fine baby. It is strong, it is healthy." Gravely Ceadda eyed the woman before him, making sure she understood. When she smiled blushingly at his words, he nodded and continued. "It is strong and healthy because you care well for it." Her blush deepened. Again his finger poked her breast. "You have plenty of milk, woman. That's good for the child. You feed it well." His large finger stroked the child's chubby dirt- and tear-smeared cheek.

Meeting Erchirion's enquiring gaze, Éomer shrugged. He did not know what the Eastfolder was aiming at, but he was curious enough to let him continue.

"Your child needs your milk, Lynet, and that's why you have to turn those shagging bastards down." Her mouth opened, but before she could utter anything, he put his finger across her lips. "Shut up and listen. When they bonk you, they can make another child grow inside you. You know that, don't you?" Unsure, she looked up into the herder's grave face and then nodded. Putting his large hand on her shoulder, he bent a little down to her, trying to let his words sink in. "Lynet, when there is another child growing inside you, your milk will get less until it will stop." Shaking her lightly, he insisted: "Lynet, if you let them bonk you, your baby will be hungry. You don't want Leofa go hungry, do you?" Her eyes wide in genuine horror, she shook her head. Patting her cheek, Ceadda smiled now. "Well Lynet, you keep your cunny clamped till your child is weaned and can eat proper food. Promise?"

She looked at him reluctantly. "But what shall I say if they beg?"

Ceadda rolled his eyes. His patience was obviously wearing out. "Woman, tell them to go into the barn and fuck some knothole. There are enough, and of any size they might want."

Lynet shook her head. "But that will hurt. They will not like to do that."

Éomer had to struggle, not to join in the general chuckle.

"Woman, what is more important: your baby's tummy or those twats' pricks?" Ceadda growled. "They can go and find another wench to bang, but your child has no one but you."

"He's right, Lynet. Just tell them to sod off." Osulf smiled soothingly at the hesitating woman, and finally she nodded.

A call from the herders drew their attention, and Ceadda raised his hand. "You'd better get out of here. It's nearly noon and they need to water the horses. We want the buggers to show themselves in all their splendour at the Giefu."

Lynet nodded. "Yes, like the new guards."

"Eh?" The Eastfolder stood dumbfounded. Obliviously Lynet nodded. "Yes, Frithuswith said to Imma, she will have a peek at the new guards as they will show themselves in all their splendour."

The bystanders roared with laughter. "Blimey, Frithuswith! If there ever was a lead mare, it's her! What a woman!" Ceadda wiped the tears of laughter out of his eyes. "But now you better be off, Lynet." Not understanding the reason for the men's mirth, Lynet made for one of the porches, and looking after her, Ceadda heaved a sigh. "Béma's stallion, that's some nice piece of arse. What a pity she's that dumb."

It was only when the first horses were led over to the trough that Éomer realised that Erchirion had been standing by all the time, not understanding a single word. Apologising, he turned to his brother in arms. "I'm sorry, Erchirion. I wanted to show you something genuine Rohirric, and when the chaos started, I simply forgot you would not understand anything."

Erchirion shrugged. "I suppose Winfrid's stunt was the most Rohirric I have seen since the war. And I do understand at least some Rohirric." He grinned, seeing Éomer's surprised expression. "Lothíriel forced me to participate in Beorhtraed's lessons, but I'm a failure at languages. Mind you; I can talk to my servant, that is, make clear what I want, but I don't have the foggiest what that herder said."

Éomer chuckled. "No small wonder. First of all he has the thickest Eastfold accent I've ever heard, and second..." He paused, raising an eyebrow. "That bloke did not really use the vocabulary I expect my scribe to teach the future Queen of the Mark."

"What a pity Loth missed it then! She would have been delighted." Laughing, they entered the stables and went up to Firefoot's stall. Winfrid was busy grooming the stallion and noticed their approach only when the big grey lifted his head with a short whicker.

"Leave the curry comb for a moment and come out, boy." Eomer's voice was low, but the grave tone of the address caused several stable hands busy in the alley to look up.

Reluctantly, Winfrid put the grooming utensils down in a corner of the stall and stepped out into the stable aisle, obviously unsure about what to expect. Nevertheless, facing his king, he squared his shoulders and looked Éomer straight into the eye. "Sire?"

_What a warrior this boy would become if he stood just a handful of inches higher! _No move of his facial muscles gave away Éomer's emotion, as he pulled the sheathed dagger out of his belt. "Winfrid, Erwig's Son of Westfold, you have shown skill and courage, a prowess to do any Rider proud. Receive this dagger as a token of acknowledgement and gratification."

The boy's eyes widened and he gulped, but overcoming the first moment of shock, he dropped down on one knee, and the king put the dagger on his outstretched palms and patted him on the shoulder. "Rise, King's Squire and get me an apple for that glutton of mine."

Jumping up and making for the bucket that held the treats for the horses, Winfrid grinned delightedly. "I've already given him one, Sire, but I have no doubt that he's up for a second one."

Éomer smiled. "No doubt. Just finish grooming him and then get yourself over to the hall to have a bite and clean up a bit. I want you to hand me the halters at the Hengest Giefu."

Winfrid stopped mid-movement and then slowly turned round, his expression an odd mixture of shock, joy and disbelief. "Really?" His voice was a mere croak.

"You doubt your king's orders?" Éomer's brows shot up, but he could not help a grin at the boy's reaction. "Hurry, lad. And wipe the amazement off your face. I don't want any tussled straps."

Nodding eagerly, the boy hurried to take up grooming Firefox again while Éomer fed his charger the apple and then left the stable, a chuckling Erchirion at his side.

"It's daggers then, isn't it?"

Éomer shrugged. "We'll see. At least he'll want to train fighting with a dagger now, if I know anything about how boys' brains work."

They stepped out into the yard again, and Erchirion looked approvingly at the stallions that were now standing at the trough, drinking deeply. "That's quite a display of horseflesh. But I still don't know what is going on. I understood the word hengest and I know what giefu means, but I'll be buggered if I know what will happen."

With a sudden pang Éomer realised that Erchirion, for all his admiration of anything that concerned the Mark, would not be able to understand the deep meaning every single action of the ritual held for the Eorlingas. He would just behold the outer side of it, the spectacle, the strange barbaric event. And though he probably would find it fascinating, he would not feel the ties that connected the Eorlingas to their ancestors back to the times before the Northmen had been forced to leave Rhovanion and became the Éotheod.

Pulling a slow, controlled breath, he tried to get rid of the cold lump that was forming in his stomach. He had to accept that it was like that, it could not be helped. Perhaps given some time, Erchirion would be able to feel what they felt, or at least understand their feelings, but for now there was little more than to explain the proceedings. And to do that in their usual easy way would no doubt make the situation more acceptable and even enjoyable for both of them.

Éomer released his breath. Would a Gondorean, or anybody not born and grown up in their culture, ever be able to feel like the Eorlingas towards their traditions and beliefs? What if he had Lothíriel at his side? Would she be able to share his joy and pride, to feel how the ceremony touched the very core of his people's soul?

And then he remembered, and a feeling like the touch of a warm hand stroking his solar plexus, dissolved the last traces of his tension. He had spoken to her about Gytha and the Éoredhead Segnung. To her and to no one else in Gondor... and she had understood. _It's a nice and warm-hearted custom... _He felt like he heard the echo of her voice in the beating of his heart. She would understand, and that was all that mattered.

Smiling, he turned to his friend. He would feed Erchirion's curiosity today, and who knew? Perhaps some years on the plains would make Erchirion's heart understand what at the moment only his brain could grasp.

"The stallions will be given to twelve Riders who have been appointed members of the King's Guard. That means that from now on they must put the safety and interest of the king first, even before that of their own families. You see, we Eorlingas believe that being born into a family you share the boons but also the responsibilities. So a man cannot just go ahead and leave the responsibility for his kin behind. Therefore a ritual is held, to symbolize the change from their former life into a new one. They die for their clans and are reborn as members of the royal household."

Erchirion scratched his neck."That doesn't sound very comfortable, Brother."

"No, it doesn't. But you needn't worry." Éomer smirked. "There normally are no gory bits involved."

"Thank you so much for telling me. I would certainly have fainted, were it otherwise." His hand on his chest, Erchirion bowed in mock politeness. "But tell me Éomer, what do you mean by _dying and being reborn_?"

"Well, since sunset yesterday night the appointed men have fasted and stayed awake, singing the traditional songs. Today in the morning they had a ritualistic bath and when the sun is at her highest point, they will march from the barracks into the yard." He pointed towards the lane, where now birchen garlands were fastened, similar to those at the stable doors. "Women of the royal household who have at least borne one child will welcome them, putting the pusa around their shoulders."

"The what?"

"The pusa: a kind of linen shawl, symbolising the bag of waters. Thus they are reborn into the king's household." He gave his friend wry smile. "Northern barbarians, you remember?"

Erchirion snorted. "Well, Éomer, forgoing food and sleep for just one night and letting some kind woman drape a shawl around your neck to get yourself a job in the King's Guard, and a stallion on top, doesn't sound overly cruel in my ears."

"Gondorean braggart. You know quite well that their fighting skills have been checked first and they are distinguished Riders. And," he shot his friend an ironic side-glance, "their last meal before sunset was a handful of buckthorn berries."

"What?" Totally aghast, the Gondorean stared at Éomer. "An entire handful? You're joking."

With a malicious grin, the Rohir shook his head. "It's no joke."

"Oh, shit." Pulling a disgusted grimace, Erchirion stopped.

"Exactly." More than satisfied with the effect of his announcement, Éomer urged his friend to move on.

"But for all Valar's sake, Éomer: Why? They'll probably spend the whole night on the latrine!"

Éomer shrugged. "No, certainly not more than half of it. And as for why: Do you think you can be reborn, if only in a symbolic way, with the crap of your last life in your bowels?"

"Oh, man." Erchirion drew a breath. "I knew the Rohirrim can stomach things, but that?" He shook his head and then grinned from ear to ear. "Blimey, you truly are barbarians. The Rohirrim really do quite a lot for a good horse."

Éomer laughed."They don't do it to get the horse, you dolt. They will be given a young horse to train as their future charger as a reward for their loyalty."

"And what a charger!" Turning round, Erchirion let his gaze sweep one more time over the assembled stallions and then frowned. "You said: twelve men. But there are more than twenty stallions or I'm cross-eyed."

Éomer nodded. "Twenty-four. Thirty-six would even be better, three being a sacred number, but we do not have as many stallions of exactly the necessary quality, age and training at the moment in the royal herd at Aldburg." He smiled at Erchirion's enquiring look. "There has to be a real chance of choice. Men and horses will meet in the yard and chose each other in mutual trust and understanding. Once Rider and horse have found each other, the man will step up to the king, present the pusa as token of his affiliation, and hand it over to the king, receiving a simple halter in exchange. He then fastens it to the stallion's head."

"And that's it? He can take his new mount to the stable?" His head cocked, Erchirion glanced at his friend suspiciously.

"No, not yet. First horse and Rider have to share."

A fierce blush crawled into Erchirion's face. "Do I want to know about that?"

Éomer guffawed. "No, nothing like that bloody rubbish dished about at Cormallen. It's rather simple: The man leads his horse to the hlaefdige, the highest ranked woman of the king's household, normally the queen, and will be given a small bowl with oats and water. He shares it with his horse, for all to see, and then hands the empty bowl to the king, thus reminding him, that it is his responsibility to keep horse and Rider fed. And then the Rider leads his horse into the stable. The complete left wing has been emptied for them to avoid problems, and the Riders will spend the first night together with their future mounts."

"There will be no feast? No booze, no dancing?"

Éomer shook his head. "No, not today. When they have broken in the horses, in some weeks or even months, they will present them before the king and then there will be a feast."

They had reached the staircase that led up to Meduseld and parted, each one hurrying to wash and prepare for the ritual, and when the sun reached her highest point, Éomer King stood proudly before his people in the yard that was lined with spectators now. Erchirion, in the blue and silver of Dol Amroth, stood at his right, as appropriate for a guest of honour, and Winfrid, a bundle of halters over his shoulder and skipping with excitement, at his left.

Éomer lifted his hand, and a single horn sounded, bellowing the signal of the Eorlingas. And then the big drums started, hollow, slow, setting a grave rhythm. From where they stood, they could not look into the lane that led to the barracks, but when the women who stood at the junction started to sing, Éomer knew that the men were approaching. They saw the women lift the shawls before putting them around the shoulders of the men that knelt before them, and then step aside. With the tabours joining in, adding a skipping sound like a heartbeat, the newly appointed guards strode into the yard. All twelve abreast in one line, newly born brothers in arms. Rohan's best, their shoulders squared and their heads held high, they approached the horses, starting to hum a low-pitched tune as they passed amongst the stallions.

Éomer felt the Gondorean beside him gasp and bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from laughing out loud. Carefully keeping his face expressionless, he turned to Erchirion, beholding his friend's furious blush with hidden glee. "Why, Erchirion is there anything wrong? Things certainly differ in Gondor and the Mark, but don't tell me that Gondoreans are born wearing clothes."

**Annotations:**

**birches** were a female symbol in Northern mythology, the token of life-giving and a new beginning.

**Hengest:** (Rohirric/Old English) stallion

**giefu: **(Rohirric/Old English) gift, present

**cól: ** (Rohirric/Old English) calm, quiet

**cniht: **(Rohirric/Old English) boy

**Leofa: **(Rohirric/Old English) Darling

**Éoredheap Segnung: **(Rohirric/Old English)Blessing of the Warriors

**pusa: **(Rohirric/Old English) bag

Dried and ground **buckthorn** (Rhamnus catharica) **berries** are still today used in herbal laxatives, though they are lightly poisonous.

**hleafdige: **(Rohirric/Old English) high lady (literally:"bread giver")


	7. Chapter 7

Here comes a bit of "romantic torment" for all of you who missed it in the last chapter. ;-) I hope you'll have fun reading it. And many, many thanks to **sep 12** for her alertness on my language mistakes.

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><p><strong>Chapter 7 <strong>

His head propped on his left hand, Éomer stared at the blank vellum in front of him. He was going to leave for a sennight's trip to Aldburg the next day, to show Erchirion the place he had been born, and he was determined to write to Lothíriel before leaving. He had read her letter a dozen times during the last days, and every time he had postponed an answering letter in the end, telling himself that the agitation he felt reading it would lessen and enable him to write at least a halfway structured answer one of the coming days. But his expectation had proved futile as time had not helped at all. Quite the contrary. The images her words created before his mind's eye had become more detailed and vivid the longer he had pondered about them.

How could she do that to him with nothing but some black signs on beige paper? It took all his self-command not to reach again for her letter lying on his desk, not to read, but rather to touch the paper she had touched. Smooth paper, cream-coloured like her skin.

He groaned. He had to stop that or he would never be able to write anything. And yet... How would it be to walk at her side along the seam of the flood, their hands clasped, the roar of the surf and the shrill cries of the gulls filling the air? And like the days before, the scene started to play in his mind.

Following the receding tide, they would not stop, but wade out into the sea at the turning of the tide. He imagined his body floating beside hers in the swell, the waves carrying them back to the shore, her body rising out of the water, salty droplets rolling down her smooth skin, her soaked garments clinging to her body, unveiling her tempting form to his hungry eye...

He threw the quill down in frustration. Her letter had kindled his desire in a way he had not thought possible before and the mere sight of the pages made him feel helpless like a thirsty man in sight of a sparkling stream he could not reach. He clenched his fist. She had only written about a walk on the beach and her wish to comb his hair, hadn't she? He did not at all succeed in convincing himself. True, she had not written anything else, but she was not really expecting him to fall asleep in her lap, was she? At least his ideas what he would do, once his head touched her lap differed extremely from the picture of peaceful slumber. He raked his hands through his hair. Did she really not know how much she set him ablaze with the scenes she described?

..._and my eyes would feast on you unashamedly... _It had not only been her eyes that had feasted on him in the fluttering shade of the old plane tree. And she certainly had not mentioned that location without purpose. That stone bench under the plane tree she had sat on before she had asked to touch him, to enable her to remember. And here she told him she remembered! She remembered... and so did he.

He closed his eyes, giving in to the sensation of his groin tightening, his entire body tensing. So much like when he had awaited her touch with closed eyes, back then in the heat of a summer's afternoon. He remembered... The sensation of her slender hands roaming over his body, her fingernails digging into his flesh, her firmly muscled buttocks under his passionate grip and the incredible feeling of the yielding softness of her abdomen against the hard length of his erection.

... _I feel that you will understand me, that there is no need to feel ashamed for what I feel... _Was she really feeling the same torturing desire he felt? He swallowed, trying in vain to suppress the need that swept through him. He remembered... Her enraptured face, her arcing body, her pebbled nipples against his palms...

In a fit of helplessness he crumpled the vellum in his fist. And then his gaze fell on the postscript. _… How I dread the winter... _She certainly was not the only one. And suddenly he knew how to start. He smoothed out the maltreated parchment and took up the quill again.

_Dearest Lothíriel,_

_I wish I could tell you not to fear the winter, not to fear any winter, as I would keep you warm and sheltered from any rigour. But alas, I cannot, as many miles lie between us and only in our dreams can we embrace._

He stopped, hesitating, fearing he might have been too bold. If he only had her here, there would be no need for words and script. Script, such a poor, dead surrogate and yet... If her written words could make him feel that much cared for, loved and coveted... could not he raise the same feelings in her? Would she not read his lines with the same desperate hunger he had read hers? He frowned. She had told him she did not expect him to write perfect letters, so what did he have to lose? Had she not said he was a warrior and no scribe? And had she not chosen the warrior? Well, he would write her a warrior's letter.

Dipping the quill again, he continued.

_I think of you very often. In the morning, when I rise at dawn, I imagine what it would be like to wake up beside you._

Oh, he did imagine a lot of things those mornings: the warmth of her body, the smell of her skin, her exquisite black mane under his caressing hands... How he would wake her... slowly, tenderly kissing her awake, caressing her into the haze of passion at the same time. He heaved a breath. He imagined... but he could not phrase, let alone write it.

He sighed, twisting the quill in his large hands. Had she not made an attempt to tell him what she felt? Did not the last paragraph of her letter show that she had realised only afterwards? Had she felt the same uncertainty he felt, and yet let the words stand, trusting in him to understand? Was it not his duty to dispel her doubts? He had to tell her, let her see his mind and heart. His longing for her was woven like a thread of brightly coloured, warm wool through his entire day, not to speak of the nights... He would continue his letter as he had started: telling her about his day. A faint smile tucked at the corners of his mouth. Perhaps that was a way to come to know each other. At least it was worth a try; and try he would.

_There are so many things I would like to share with you. Moments when I am happy. When the sun is rising over the plains in the morning. But at the same time I am afraid you will miss Dol Amroth and the sea. I do so much want you to be happy and the thought that living in Rohan might cause you pain grieves me. I am a selfish man to want you here, by my side, in my arms, but I cannot help it. Be assured, love, I will try to make amends for my selfishness and I will do everything I can to make you happy._

He had to muster all his self-command not to lose himself again in the imagination of what he would do to please her. He had better switch to a different topic to keep himself from temptation.

_Sometimes in council, when these important lords and their niggling arguments that are nothing but a contest for importance, get on my nerves, I entertain myself imagining what it would be like if you strode in like some fresh gust from the western sea and gave them a piece of your mind, and my mood brightens. _

_I have to admit I am very much looking forward to having you at my side in matters of government, though I know I am burdening you with studies on Rohirric law and tradition to be up to that. I cannot tell you how pleased and relieved I was when you demanded to be given a tutor who was not only able to teach you the language of the Mark, but also apt to explain the odds and ends of the administrative system. Who knows, perhaps you will even succeed in making an adequate king out of a rough and ready warrior like me._

He grinned, imagining how she would raise a brow in mock reproof and then double over with laughter. How he had enjoyed the intelligent fun and banter with her... He mentally kicked himself and continued writing. He knew now, what he wanted to tell her, what he wanted her to know, but he nevertheless found it difficult to keep his mind from wandering.

_But there are other things apart from the important ones that make me think of you. Little, everyday commodities and events, that are so common and ordinary that I normally would not think about them, like porridge. I like it exceedingly and for me it always has been the best dish to start the day with, but suddenly I find myself pondering if you will like it, or if you would prefer anything else. I know it sounds banal, but it makes me realise how little I know about you and how much I would like to know._

He scratched his jawline. The words were so trite, transporting nothing of the alarm he had felt, realising that even such mundane things differed between Gondor and the Mark. He wished he could just erase the last paragraph. Why did it matter if she preferred bread, like they did in Gondor? What had got into him to whine about porridge in a letter to his betrothed? Feeling the heat of a blush mount into his face, he realised that it was something that meant more to him than just food. He swallowed, scolding himself for being pathetic, but he could not help the feeling: porridge meant home, warmth and care, and it had been like that from his infant years to his days as King of the Riddermark. How could such mundane things be that important! He felt sure she would understand, but he was not able to phrase his realisation. Not yet. He had better stay on solid ground, with things that explained themselves.

_Only yesterday, Frithuswith, the housekeeper of Meduseld I told you about, asked me which colours you liked best, and I stood like a fool and could not answer. The women of the household are turning Éowyn's old room into a solar, your solar, as it has sunlight throughout most of the day, and they want to weave new hangings and tapestries for it over the winter. That is why they asked what you would prefer. They finally decided not to hang anything but have a variety of different tapestries ready for you to choose from. I want it to be your solar, a room where you feel at home. So feel free to bring some furniture or draperies from Gondor, if you would like to have some keepsake of your childhood._

_Éowyn had a wooden rocking horse our father made for her when she was but a toddler, but she insisted on taking it with her to Edoras when Théoden King took us in after our parents' death. And now it resides in Emyn Arnen, to remind my sister of the happy years of her childhood, and probably will be loved by her children one day._

Children... He could not help grinning like an idiot. Dipping the quill again, he continued, imagining her grin mirroring his own when she read his remarks.

_Perhaps I had better start carving right now, to have a row of rocking horses ready to supply the little horselords and -ladies you want to have. _

He swallowed, the sudden rush of love and protectiveness taking him by surprise. She had even been prepared to agree to an arranged marriage to have her wish for children of her own granted. How could it be that they, strangers from different countries and cultures, had talked about such intimate things the very first time they had had the opportunity to talk at all? She wanted children... and they would be his. She wanted to bear his children. She had laughed, reading his letter, not to ridicule him, but out of joy. He realised he was on the edge of getting lost in daydreaming again, and determinedly continued writing. He wanted her to understand him, to know how he felt. He needed to tell her the truth.

_Lothíriel, I cannot tell you how relieved I was when I read your affirmation of the carvings. I have to admit I understood what the people would think once I saw the ears of barley on the browpiece, and I feared you might not have known what they meant in the Mark. I should have informed you first, but I liked them so much, and I was and still am simply thrilled about your fearless heartiness... I wanted to believe you knew. I remembered your smile when you told me about the miracle you wanted to experience yourself, back then on the shore of Tol Cobas, and I so much want to see that smile on your face again. May the Valar bless us and make the beauty of the tokens come alive through our union._

What would their children look like? He remembered Gytha, a tiny bundle of rosy warmth in his arms, and his heart sped up at the thought of experiencing that feeling again.

The flickering of the candle, ready to go out, made him realise how late it already was. He had better finish the letter now, as they were to leave at dawn. He smoothed out the faint crinkles that still showed on the vellum. It would reach her in four days. And how many days it would take till he got an answer? Was she really carrying his letters in her bodice? He was not sure if Erchirion had simply had him on, but he knew he could ask neither Lothíriel herself nor her brother. But he had to admit, he liked the thought exceedingly. And then an idea hit him. They were passing Ymbhaga on their way to Aldburg tomorrow, a small hamlet famous for its bees and lime groves. And for its skilled carvers who used the smooth linden wood. He would get himself some well-seasoned wood there and make a letter case for Lothíriel. He stretched contentedly, the measures of the box and the pattern of the carvings vivid before his inner eye. How long had it been since he last had had a carving knife in his hands? It seemed ages. Was that what peace was like? To have the time and leisure to carve a present for the woman one loved?

In the quivering light of the dying candle he closed his letter.

_You wrote you would like to accompany Erchirion, disguised as his squire. I wish you had done so, though I know it is impossible. But what would we be without dreams? I would like play-acting my own errand rider, hoping for a warm welcome by some pirate princess in Dol Amroth._

_I am a selfish man, dear Lothíriel, but write to me as soon as you can, as I am living from letter to letter, counting the days. _

_I remember you, my love and future wife. É._

**ooo**

Having emptied the mead cups on the threshold of the ancient hall, the official part of their welcome to Aldburg was over, and Elfhelm led them to the well-lit spacious room that had been Éomund's, and later Éomer's, study. Not that he had used it much, being mostly out with the herders or his Éored. Now it rather looked like some kind of parlour with colourful carpets and richly carved furniture. Éomer let his gaze wander. The upholstered chairs were obviously new, but he recognized the large polished table to be the one that had stood in his mother's solar. It was good to be back at Aldburg, and even better to know the place in such capable hands. Erchirion was engaged in talk with Elfhelm, and Éomer was thankful for the moment of meditation he was given by that, getting used to being a guest in a house that once had been his home.

Taking in the brightness of the drapery, the arrangement of tapestry and pewter, he could not help a grin. The touch of a woman's hand was obvious in all of this, changing the air of his former study thoroughly. Not that he had missed such things back then, he just found it funny to see the difference. His grin deepened when he thought of the changes that might take place in his current study, once Lothíriel was in Meduseld.

His thoughts were interrupted by Elfhelm's wife Hrodwyn, entering with a servant in tow, carrying a tray with tiny pies and some tankards. The flavour of the crusty pies made his mouth water, and Erchirion as well looked up expectantly.

"I doubt your appetite has changed, now you are king." Grinning, Hrodwyn gave him a wink, and soon he found himself tucking in like in the times he had been a youngster, paying a visit at the marshal's house in Edoras. Erchirion followed his example without hesitation, exclaiming and praising the Lady of the House at every different filling he tasted. It was only when the last savoury morsel had disappeared that Éomer realised they had left nothing for Winfrid, who had insisted on caring for the horses himself, but Hrodwin eased his bad conscience. "We are having more visitors than you and I told cook to put some aside. And then there will be some proper dinner ready soon."

"Hrodwyn can't have enough guests, even if they invade her house as unexpectedly as you." Elfhelm's face was absolutely deadpan, but his eyes twinkled merrily and there was warmth in his voice as he looked at his wife. "Not that I'm not delighted to see the two of you. But I had expected you later. It's just one week Lord Erchirion has arrived, and surely Edoras has enough things of interest to occupy him for more than a handful of days." Elfhelm spoke Westron for Erchirion's sake, and though speaking with a distinct accent, he was quite fluent.

Éomer nodded. "Sure, but he saw the stallions at Hengest Giefu. And with Éothain being busy training the new guards, I thought it a fitting idea to come over and have a look at the bachelors."

"I wanted to see how you keep and train them," Erchirion chimed in. "I could not believe my eyes, seeing such a gang of semi-trained stallions behave that civil towards one another. Éomer explained to me, but I really would like to see it with my own eyes."

Elfhelm stroked his beard thoughtfully. "You simply need enough space to keep and train them separately from the mares." He shrugged. "Not that the lead stallions would tolerate them anyway. So we just employ a behaviour that is natural to them, keeping them in bands that consist solely of young stallions. It's that and the training they receive from the day they are weaned. Though even before, from the very moment they are born, they are trained to tolerate man's touch. In the end not all fit to be used as warhorses, but those that are promising will be backed in their fourth year, as they need to be well developed, both bodily and mentally."

His explanations were interrupted by the sound of running feet in the corridor, and then the door was flung open so vigorously that it crashed against the wall. In a whirl of dirt and bits of straw, a gangly, ginger-haired girl stormed into the room, whooping at the top of her lungs. "Ealder Faeder, Ealder Modor, it's a filly! I've won! It's a filly and she's mine!"

Éomer had just enough presence of mind not to gape. _Béma, how she had grown since he had last seen her!_ But besides her surprising tallness nothing had changed. She still was the boisterous filly he knew from his visits in the Wold, still dressed in breeches and boots, some worn-out tunic and a shabby leather jerkin, covered in trails of horse slobber and Béma knew what, her hair a mop of red-golden locks, only cursorily restrained through an unruly braid. Gytha! His little girl, his daughter.

"My dear, it would only be polite if for all your joy you greated our guests first." Hrodwyn's voice was calm but firm. The girl's eyes widened, as turning round she beheld her father and an obviously noble Gondorean, but she pulled herself together and stepped up to them, hesitating after a few steps, obviously unsure who to greet first.

Seeing her misgivings, Éomer rose and putting his large hands on her shoulders, he kissed her brow. "Westu, dohtor, hal." She gave him a wobbly smile, and smiling back assuringly, he turned towards Erchirion. He felt awkward for Gytha's sake. He should have told his friend he had a daughter. But it could not be helped. As it was, he had to make it as easy as possible for the child now. One hand protectively on his daughter's shoulder, he switched to Westron. "Gytha, meet my friend and brother, Lord Erchirion, Prince Imrahil's son of Dol Amroth." Erchirion had risen out of his chair meanwhile, and with relief Éomer noticed that his smile was a genuine one, crinkling the corners of his dark eyes. "Brother, meet Gytha, my daughter."

Éomer felt her squaring her shoulders, and then to his utter surprise, the girl slipped out of his grip, and tilting her head slightly, she performed a nearly flawless curtsey in front of Erchirion, who had visible problems staying serious at her display of awkward grace. His smile deepening, he took her hand, and heedless of grubby fingers and dirty, broken fingernails, he breathed a kiss over her knuckles, causing the girl to blush profoundly. "I am delighted to meet you Lady Gytha. My sister has already told me a lot about you."

"Has she?" Scrutinising the man in front of her, Gytha squinted her eyes. "You are Princess Lothíriel's brother, aren't you?" Erchirion nodded, and for a short moment Éomer felt the urge to intervene, uneasy about the outcome of their talk, but Gytha forestalled him. "Does she look like you?" she blurted out, her face eager with curiosity.

"No, my lady, she does not." Erchirion's smile now definitely turned into a grin. "First of all she has grey eyes, and secondly she has no beard."

Gytha lifted her chin, her eyes blazing fury. "Aye, and thirdly she has boobs and you have not. Just stop kidding me."

Éomer bit the inside of his cheeks in a desperate attempt not to laugh out loud, and Erchirion struggled as much, but Hrodwyn's calm voice stopped them all. "Gytha." Nothing more, but the quiet remark caused the girl to swivel round, blushing furiously, and falling back into Rohirric. "He started, Grandmother. And Ceadda said I should not buy any guff the boys sell but pay them back in spades."

Éomer cleared his voice. "Gytha, that might be absolutely right in the stables, but Prince Erchirion did certainly not mean to decry you. He just tried to be friendly." He too used Rohirric, to spare her any embarrassment in front of Erchirion, but seeing her frown he added: "And it is not polite to switch to a language you expect the other not to understand." She snivelled, but nevertheless threw back her head.

"Lady Gytha?" Erchirion's voice was low, serious and sympathetic. Hesitantly she turned round to face him. "I should not have answered the way I did, forgetting that you do not know me. But as your father said, I wanted to be friendly."

Gytha's eyes went wide. "You... you understood what I said to...?"

Smiling, the Gondorean nodded. "Géa, Cwen Gytha, ic wilnian forgiefednés." He spoke haltingly, but perfectly intelligibly. Gytha's blush turned so dark, her freckles nearly faded in the deep red, but she showed no evidence of giving in. Her stance was proud, her head held high, her straight brows knitted into a dark frown, her lips a thin, angry line.

Eomer sighed inwardly. Where had the sweet, chubby girl gone that he had loved to hold in his arms? And then it hit him: This furious stubbornness... he knew it, had seen it in Éowyn more than once, and had tried to fight it in vain so many times. There was no doubt: his little girl was growing up. _Erce have mercy, and let her at least not come up with the idea of becoming a Shieldmaiden!_

Still Gytha and Erchirion stood facing each other, the girl pointedly ignoring the man's outstretched hand. When she finally spoke, Éomer was surprised at her controlled voice. "You needn't apologise, my lord. I'm not a real princess."

"And I cannot really speak Rohirric." Erchirion smiled broadly. "But you are my friend and brother's daughter, and therefore I would like to have peace between us. Shall we?"

Nodding solemnly, Gytha took his hand, her slim fingers totally disappearing in the warrior's paws. "Did you really understand what I said?" The frown still lingered on her flushed face.

Erchirion shook his head. "Not every word, but enough to get the general meaning. You see, I have only been learning the language for two months, and I'm not good at languages. My sister is much better. But then she has always been interested in languages."

The curious look was back on Gytha's face. "Does she speak many?"

Erchirion nodded. "When she was about your age, she started to "collect" languages. You see, Dol Amroth is a busy port with merchants from a lot of different countries coming there to sell their goods. Well, and she would just stand by and listen and learn. I've never seen anyone else picking up foreign languages that easily." The Gondorean gave Éomer a mischievous side-glance, before he continued. "To tell you the truth, she was mainly interested in swearwords."

Gytha's face lit up. "Swearwords? You're not having me on?"

Erchirion shook his head. "No, I'm not having you on. And she really made us suffer, me and my brothers, I mean."

"Did she? How?" Gytha's features displayed true interest now.

Erchirion chuckled. "Well, it's easy to guess a speaker's mood and intention from his behaviour, isn't it? So she just listened and picked up those phrases she thought to be swearwords, and then she forced us to tell her what they meant. And you can understand that our mother would have had our hides had she known."

"How could she force you? You were older and certainly stronger than her, weren't you?" The frown was back on Gytha's face.

Erchirion nodded. "Yes, I'm nine years older than her, Elphir twelve and Amrothos five. But she simply blackmailed us."

"She blackmailed you? How could she?"

Éomer held his breath. _You imbecile, don`t tell her now, Lothíriel would have informed your parents about your wenching escapades in the harbour taverns!_

Erchirion shrugged: "Oh, very simple. She would just smile at us and say for example: _"Very well, it was a ship from Harondor, I'm sure the captain will come to the harbour master for the farewell-cup before clearing the port. I'll just go and ask him if you won't tell me." _She could be really mean."

"But that was really clever." Gytha's eyes shone with admiration, and with an oddly mixed feeling of joy and embarrassment Éomer realised who would be his future wife's reliable provider with any Rohirric swearword she might wish to learn.

Erchirion nodded again. "Yes, she certainly is very clever. But she is not only clever, she can be funny too, and friendly and caring and sometimes even a bit crazy." He grinned. "And she is a very good archer."

"That is certainly useful. Especially when you are watching the herds. But I suppose that is no occupation for a Gondorean princess, isn't it?" Feeling she had put her foot down and forced her counterpart to take her seriously, Gytha was confident now and showed an interest that went beyond mere curiosity. Smiling, Éomer settled back into his chair, content to learn aspects he had not known up to now about both his daughter and his wife to be.

Erchirion shrugged. "We do not have large herds and certainly following them is not seen as an occupation for a noblewoman, but I'm sure if she really wanted to, she would simply do it. But not everything she does is challenging or provoking. There are things she likes that are quite common with Gondorean women. For one she is an expert in embroidery."

Gytha rolled her eyes. "I hate embroidery. It's idiotic. It takes you hours, and what do you get? Just some silly ornaments."

Éomer suppressed a sigh at his daughter's statement. _Béma, not a second Éowyn, please._

"I prefer weaving. That is great." Throwing back her unruly strands, she looked challenging at Erchirion.

The Gondorean simply nodded. "A very Rohirric preference. All Gondoreans are keen on buying Rorirric cloth, blankets and tapestries."

She wrinkled her nose. "I would not sell anything I weave. And I'm not doing tapestry. I'm not good at that. It needs a lot of patience and skill. I like to weave blankets, or even better carpets, with thick, bright wool. That is great, as you really see how much you proceed. And I like the touch of the thick wool. But sometimes I also do finer things." She grinned. "The best thing would be to have two looms with different works, and to switch from one to the other, depending on my mood."

"You really know how to weave?" Éomer was surprised. Sure, she was twelve, but from what he had seen of her on his visits to the Wold, he had not expected her to have earnestly turned to something like weaving. And blankets? Or even carpets? That was hard work that needed a strong hand and even movements. And how could that whirlwind of a girl muster the necessary patience?

If looks could kill, he would have dropped dead. "I said so, didn't I? I even have my own loom." Her boastful expression evaporating to doubt, she tilted her head. "You like blankets, don't you?"

"How can anyone with half a brain not like blankets?" Éomer shook his head. "Blankets are useful, and nice blankets are a boon."

Gytha blushed. "I just asked, because I wove one for you, Éomer Faeder, and I hope you like it. Will you come and look at it?" She eagerly took his hand, anything else around her forgotten for a moment.

"Gytha." Hrodwyn's even voice interrupted. "We will have dinner in one hour. Our guests have ridden all the way from Edoras and certainly would like to wash and change garment before it and so should you, dear." Turning to Éomer, she smiled warmly. "You will see, Éomer, Gytha really is a talented weaver, though her choice of colours is a bit eccentric. I suggest you have a look at the blanket after dinner."

"But after dinner I have to go back to Hraefn! And I still need to find a name for the filly," Gytha said impatiently.

"Hraefn?" Éomer stood flabbergasted. "Is it really Ceadda's ancient mare that has foaled?"

Elfhelm nodded. "Why do you think we have a foaling mare that much out of season? That old fox has tried since last summer to get her pregnant, keeping her with the geldings put out to pasture and bringing one of the young stallions over any time she showed so much as a hint she was on heat."

Éomer shook his head. "That mare certainly is exceptional, but she's at least twenty."

"Twenty-two," Elfhelm corrected drily. "She's one of the last sheer blacks we have in the Eastfold, Éomer. And you know that Ceadda is a maniac as far as horses are concerned. He started trying as soon as he was back from Gondor after the war and had secured that stallion. Too young to breed under normal circumstances, but as the circumstances are not normal..." The marshal grinned. "Ceadda would not have proceeded if he had not been sure that the mare was up to it."

"The filly is strong and healthy." The stubbornness was back in Gytha's voice.

Éomer grinned, knowing that there was nothing to keep her out of the stables tonight. "It surely is, and I would very much like to see it too, Gytha. What about making haste at cleaning up and having a look at your blanket before dinner? We could then go together to visit Hraefn and her foal."

"It is your blanket, not mine." Her voice was still stroppy, but she could not suppress the smile that curved the corners of her large mouth unintentionally.

"All right, daughter: my blanket." He grinned. "But now hurry, so I can get it."

With a laugh she made to leave the room but then hesitated. Turning round again, she bobbed her head at Erchirion. "It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord." Bobbing likewise to her father and her grandparents, she left, not without Elfhelm winking at her and giving her a thumbs up.

For a split second both their faces were in Éomer's visual field, and with a pang he realised how much these two resembled each other: The same long face, a face in which everything seemed to be straight: the high forehead, the brows that did not arc in the slightest, the long nose, its bridge sharp as the edge of a knife, and this incredibly wide mouth. Straight, clear lines, the highly visible characteristics of Elfhelm's linage.

Éomer swallowed. There was nothing in his daughter's face that bore evidence of himself.

* * *

><p><strong>Annotations:<strong>

**ealder faeder/ealder modor: **(Old English/Rohirric) grandfather, grandmother

**westu... hal**: respectful/official form of greeting

**géa: **(Old English/Rohirric) yes

**cwen: **(Old English/Rohirric) princess, queen, noble woman

**Ic wilnian forgiefednés: **(Old English/Rohirric) I beg forgiveness. (I am sure it is grammatically wrong, but it's Erchirion who says it, so I can blame the deficient knowledge of the language on him. ;-))

**Hraefn: **(Old English/Rohirric) Raven

**sheer black:** Most black horses tend to turn brownish at least in some parts of their body at some time in their life. Therefore "bleached" blacks and dark bays are easily mistaken for each other. A certain sign for true blacks is the black coat around the eyes (it is always brown with bays).

A s**heer black's** mane and tail might bleach a little bit in summer, but the entire horse stays black, having not only a black coat but also black skin. The eyes of a** sheer black **are always brown.

Even today that colouring is not very common; so **Hraefn** is supposed to be something really special.


	8. Chapter 8

So here comes the next chapter, especially to calm Camilla's nerves. ;-) Thank you all for the lovely reviews, they are really most welcome and part of the fun of writing. And very special thanks to **sep 12 **for helping me with the language.

I'm afraid there will be no update next week as RL really is a bitch at the moment and though my speed at typing has improved a lot during the past year, I still am incredibly slow. I need some more time to sort things out, but the story will doubtlessly continue. I hope you will stay with it and continue reading nevertheless.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8<strong>

At ease with himself, Éomer stretched his long legs and leaned back against the planks of the sweat lodge. It had been a good idea to visit Laguhám, though he had been more than surprised at learning that Ceadda had left late the previous night, muttering something about problems with some young stallions.

Éomer scratched his jawline. For Ceadda to leave his precious mare right after foaling and putting up with the imponderabilities of a night ride, there had to be some serious problems. Sure, they had a full moon and the herder knew the area like the back of his hand, and mare and filly were both strong and healthy and well cared for... but still it had to be something urgent, and obviously something Ceadda wanted to solve on his own.

So Éomer had decided to wait with their planned visit to the bachelor herds till Ceadda was back and proposed to go to Laguhám instead, a small settlement on the banks of the Entwash. The mares and yearlings of the royal herds were kept there over the winter, the selecting and gelding of the colts taking place in late autumn.

The weather had been pleasantly warm for October, and now, after a morning spent in the saddle, he and Erchirion were sharing the comfort of one of the sweating lodges nearly every settlement in the Folde possessed. Winfrid and Gytha had preferred to go for a swim with a group of children from Laguhám and had run off up-river, where some large boulders provided much favoured platforms to jump into the water.

With the inevitable guards resting in the shade of some impressive willows, Éomer and Erchirion too had waded out into the cold water after their first round of sweating and were now lazing in the smell of juniper and pine that filled the low cabin.

It was well after noon and Éomer's stomach started to complain, but he felt too lethargic to stand up and fetch the provisions from their saddlebags.

Slowly Erchirion opened a single eye. "Blimey, it's a miracle how doing nothing can get a man that parched and hungry. I wished we had remembered to bring our supplies."

Éomer laughed. "Exactly what I was thinking this very moment."

Erchirion chuckled. "Great minds think alike."

"Only that in the Mark the proverb runs: Twégen sottas – án gástgehygd. Two fools - one thought!"

Before Erchirion could strike back, there was a thump at the door, as if some booted foot was kicking it vigorously. "Éomer Faeder?" Gytha's voice would have woken the dead. "Can you open the door? My hands are full."

Swiftly Erchirion grabbed his shirt to cover himself at least to some extent. With a chuckle and a wry side glance at his friend's alarmed expression, Éomer rose and opened the door. Gytha was standing in front of it, balancing a small iron tray with half a loaf of dark bread and a wedge of the mild creamy cheese typical of the area in one hand and a jug in the other. Her expression was tense. "I can't put the jug down or the tray will topple over." She gave him a big grin. "It's ale."

Éomer took the tray and placed it on the still warm oven between the benches and sat down again, while Gytha pulled out two wooden cups, she had simply shoved into her tunic for easier transport. She was not wearing her dingy jerkin and her tunic was tolerably clean, but what surprised Éomer most was the neat and intricate braiding of her hair. Two thin plaits on each side of her head held back the hair from her face and ears, giving the impression of a red-golden crown wrought around her head, and at the back the plaits and the remaining hair had been braided in a complicated pattern, forming one thick plait that reached below her shoulder-blades.

"Who braided your hair, dear? It looks lovely." He did not add "exceptionally neat", as he was convinced she would not appreciate that.

"Winfrid."

"Winfrid?" A feeling somewhere between surprise and alarm assaulted him.

"Yes, he knows a lot of different patterns. His elder sister taught him to braid her hair, because their grandmother would not keep a maid just for such "nonsense", as she called it. He's really good at it, and he's still over there, braiding the hair of all the girls." Gytha chuckled. "Ceolwen told him, he was cute and she would make him her pet, but he said he'd bite." She put the cups down on the bench and reached for the jug. "Is it true that Éowyn had been betrothed to his father?

Éomer frowned. He did not like the idea of his daughter gossiping, especially not about family matters. "Who told you?"

"Ceadda. When he came back from Hengest Giefu last week, he said that you had got yourself some horse-enchanter, Erwig of Westfold's son. And if he had known about Winfrid's way with horses, he would not have been that much against Éowyn marrying that Westfolder."

"It's nearly five years now, Gytha. Erwig of Westfold was a close friend of Prince Théodred's. And I think it was Théodred who convinced Éowyn to agree to marrying Erwig." He looked down at his large hands, unsure what else to say. "He was a good and trustworthy man, Gytha, but he was killed in an ambush on his way home to the Westfold after the betrothal." He was sure that had been but another atrocity Wormtongue had initiated, but he would not talk about that to her right now.

"So Winfrid was eight then." She rubbed her nose. "But why did they live with his grandparents? What about his mother?"

Éomer cleared his throat. "Gytha, his mother died giving birth to him. She had been very ill and..."

"That's why he is so small?" Her head tilted slightly, she squinted her eyes. Éomer nodded.

"I see." Her face was thoughtful. "If Éowyn had married Erwig, then Winfrid and I would have been some kind of cousins, wouldn't we?"

Éomer shrugged. "Some kind of, yes."

"Ceadda says that would have been better than Éowyn marrying that poncy Gondorean."

Éomer gazed over to Erchirion who still looked uncomfortable in the girl's presence. "Well Gytha, that poncy Gondorean, as Ceadda put it, is the prince of Ithilien and a skilled leader and warrior. And he happens to be our guest's cousin."

"Really?" A big grin spread over her freckled face. "What a coincidence! One can't be careful enough, as Ealder Modor always says." She shrugged. "I suppose Ceadda suspects everyone who has not been born in the East Emnet." She poured some ale for each of the men and sat down on the ground, her back against the warm stones of the oven, her arms around her pulled-up knees, pointedly looking straight ahead. "Éomer Faeder..." Her voice trailed off.

"Well?"

She shot him a quick glance, and Éomer raised his brows enquiringly, but her eyes wandered again to the open door. Éomer was at a loss. What was it she wanted to ask him? Was she perhaps shy in front of Erchirion? He dismissed that thought. She had up to now not shown any shyness towards the Gondorean, and she knew that he would hardly be able to follow their conversation, as they spoke Rohirric.

Plucking at the hem of her tunic, she finally looked up, swallowed and said: "Can you turn round please and let me have a look at your back?"

Éomer frowned at her strange request. "Certainly. But why, Gytha?"

She blushed and mumbled: "Because of the mole."

"The what?"

Gytha rolled her eyes at her father's obvious thick-wittedness. "I have a mole. A really big ugly thing, exactly under my left shoulder blade."

Éomer blinked. _Could it be...?_ She did not notice his surprise but plodded on. "My brothers always teased me because of it. But Ealder Faeder said that you have one, too. In exactly the same spot. And that your father also had one. And when Ealder Faeder was a young Rider, they cracked jokes about it, saying that it was the reason why Éomund never turned his back to any foe."

Éomer breathed carefully to conceal his agitation. He well remembered being the butt of similar jokes in his own time as a lad. _Get dressed Éomund's son, lest the archers aim at the bull's eye. _That dratted mole... and exactly at the right point to be picked off. Slowly he turned and presented his broad back to the girl. He could hear her breath hitch.

"Blimey, is my mole really that large?"

He could not help a chuckle and turned back. "I don't know, Gytha Dohtor. I've never seen it. But Éowyn has one, and it is as large as my thumbnail."

Her eyes widened. "Éowyn has one too? Why, then it's... I mean it's like some family brand, isn't it?"

Éomer shook his head. "No dear, a brand is something man-made, something artificial. But that mole really seems to be hereditary."

Gytha gave a low whistle. "So probably my children will have it, too."

Éomer shrugged. "I don't know. Some things are only bequeathed through one line, the father's or the mother's. We know that Éomund had it and his children have it. And we know that I passed it on to you."

Gytha grinned. "We'll just have to wait for Éowyn's first child to be born then." With a contented sigh she looked up at Éomer. "You see, I was so downcast that I do not look like you at all. And when I told Ealder Faeder, he told me about the mole." Rising in one smooth movement, she made for the door, turning a last time, before she stepped out. "You know something? I even like that stupid mole now."

**ooo**

He had expected Ceadda to be back at their return to Aldburg, but neither in the paddock outside the palisades nor in the stables did he spot the herder's distinct gelding. Éomer frowned, feeling somewhat ill at ease. Ceadda knew about their plans, had been eager to guide their guest himself, proud of the results of Aldburg's ancient studbook and the formidable results of generations of careful breeding and training. And certainly there would be no better guide than him. So what kept him?

Finally Éomer decided to make Erchirion join some sparring the next day and watch Elfhelm's Éored training their horses for close combat. That would certainly find his friend's interest and also be a good preparation for their trip to the young stallions one of the next days. If Ceadda did not turn up the next day, he would walk over to Mildburh, the herder's mother. If anyone knew about Ceadda's plans and whereabouts it would be her.

Éomer smiled, remembering the woman's calm friendliness. All of her life she had been out on the eastern plains, following the herds at her husband's side, being the peaceful and yet industrious centre and heart of their camp. Smiling frequently and talking little, she had been the exact opposite of her boisterous husband. Éomer chuckled. There was no doubt after whom of his parents Ceadda had taken.

It was four years now since Acca had been killed defending the royal mares against raiding orcs in the East Emnet and Ceadda had put up his widowed mother in a small house he had built for her outside the palisades of Aldburg, as she stubbornly refused to live behind walls that hampered her free view. She spent the winters there now, but nothing and nobody would ever keep her from being out with the herds in summer.

Éomer heaved a deep breath. People like them were the backbone of the Mark, and they deserved the best he could give. If only peace would last a little longer...

**ooo**

It was early the next morning, coming back from his early morning ride, when he found Ceadda's large-framed sorrel in his stall, his coat sweat-clotted and ungroomed. And no sign of his rider.

"Ceadda?" Peering over the low door into the stall, Éomer spotted the herder sitting on an upturned wooden bucket in one corner, leaning back against the wall, his head sunken to his chest. Currycomb and brush lay at his feet, and his hands were hanging down limp at his sides. Alarmed Éomer entered the stall and grabbed his shoulders. "Ceadda?"

The older man lifted his head. "Eh? Oh, Éomer... Must have fallen asleep." The herder's face looked gaunt, with deep shadows below his eyes.

"Ceadda, what's wrong? Are you injured... ill?" Éomer was at a loss. Never before had he seen the herder that exhausted, not even after one of those gruelling days out on the plains, gelding the yearlings.

Ceadda shook his head. "No, Éomer Cyning. I'm just tired, dead tired. Haven't slept more than three hours in the last two days and ridden to Édoras and back again." He shrugged. "I'm not twenty anymore, you see."

"You were in Edoras?" Éomer frowned. "But old Ecgberht told me you had left because there had been some trouble with some young stallions."

Despite his tiredness the herder grinned lopsidedly. "Exactly. Some of those colts over there will have to adjust to the kerb or they risk gelding." He picked up the discarded tools and rose to groom his horse. "I had a talk with some Hrothgar. Called for some forceful argument to see my point of view, that lad."

"I see." Éomer leaned against the manger. "How many days will it take till the lad is able to work again?"

Ceadda grunted. "I think he'll be able to work just fine. At least when I was his age, a split lip and some loose teeth did not keep me from it."

"Ah, well. And having taken care of that at Edoras, what kept you sleepless for the rest of the day and the night?"

"First of all the horse needed some proper rest, so there was no riding back before noon anyway. Well, and so I hauled my arse over to the kitchens."

"Thought so." _Why did that man's brains stop working as soon as some child was involved? _Sucking his teeth, Éomer waited for what was inevitably to follow. And no mistake: After an awkward pause the herder plodded on.

"I wanted to have a look at that child." Brushing the flanks of the sorrel with tired strokes, Ceadda sighed. "Éomer, I'm worried. That woman has one now, and no bad stock, and as she's healthy and young there will be more... And that's the problem." He paused, brushing for a while in silence, before he continued. "She bloody much cares for the mite, and she is a hard worker, earning a living for the child and herself. But what if there are three or four? How will she feed them and stay hale herself?" His strokes had become harder, and sidestepping the gelding protested. Patting his neck, Ceadda calmed him, before continuing brushing and talking, his movements controlled now and his voice filled with bitter resignation. "All that's left then is whoring, and you've seen her. She's just not clever enough for that. Likely some bastard will get hold of her, make her sell her cunt and keep the coin for himself. She deserves better, man, she and her brat."

Éomer suppressed a sigh and pushed himself off the manger. "Ceadda, don't make the same mistake twice." He had seen Ceadda suffer worse than the lowest dog, not even three years ago now, when that bitch had left him, slandering a good man's name all over the Folde.

But Ceadda shook his head stubbornly. "No, it's not the same. Yes, I married Eadhild because she was my oath brother's widow and I wanted to provide for that little boy of his. But Éomer, she was right to leave me in the end. Mind you, not the way she did it, no, but that she left was understandable. I was never interested in her. Why, how many hours had Wynstan spent at my place when he still lived, just to avoid that vixen at home? I knew about her faults, Éomer, but I took her in because of the boy. Well, and the boy she left behind, so I can't really complain. I'm just sorry for the trouble she gave my mother."

"She used you Ceadda, and she hurt you deliberately."

"Yep, and I was stupid enough to let her use and hurt me." Ceadda gave a mirthless laugh. "But then: It was little more than one year I had to put up with her, and Eádhun is nearly five now, and he bloody well takes after his father, making me happy each day for having him. And for having got him out of that woman's grab."

The herder raked his hands through his unruly hair. "Aye, it was hard when she demanded divorce, claiming I was not able to give her her woman's right and get her with child. And it was worse when she flaunted her belly once she'd put herself up with that Ranulf." Ceadda turned to Éomer, his weather-beaten face strained, his upper lip curled in disgust. "It was a farce, she only was after Ranulf's riches, and she simply meant to hurt me. Why, she had known before, like everyone else. _Ceadda, the proud cut. _That's what they call me, isn't it?"

"Stop that, Ceadda. Stop debasing yourself. You are esteemed, a skilled herder, a reliable warrior, a good man." Éomer gripped Ceadda's shoulder, but the herder shrugged him off.

"I'm not daft, Éomer. Why, Aebbe and I were married nearly ten years and we had no children, the poor girl blaming herself for it, never finding any fault with me till the day she died, whatever I told her." His voice coarse with emotion, Ceadda stopped talking, staring at his hands for a moment, before continuing. "There is no doubt that it was me. I was quite a wild one before my marriage. But nothing. And afterwards as well. Why do you think the women open their legs for me that readily? I'm safe game, Éomer King." His voice was bitter. Ducking under the sorrel's neck, he moved around the horse and started grooming the other flank

Knowing he could do nothing to ease the other man's anguish, Éomer kept silent, and only when Ceadda had finished and came over to refill the manger, he asked: "So what made you ride over to Edoras?"

"That little Westfold runt of yours told me about Hrothgar pestering her, that's why I went. But there is no use of fooling myself. It won't work." The resignation in the herder's voice was worse than his former bitterness.

"What?" Éomer did not grasp what the herder was talking about.

"Keeping her away from the lads." The herder sighed. "I thought it such a splendid idea last week, but it doesn't work. And it's not solely the lads' fault. She's a healthy woman, Éomer, she has needs. And though she won't go and drag the lads to her bed, she'd go for a walk to the stable yard, and they'll notice she's on heat." The herder furiously kicked the wooden bucket, then turned and looked Éomer straight into the eye. "Don't tell me you would have resisted, given such a chance at the lads' age. I know I would not. Man, she does not demand anything, does not complain, does not even attempt to say no... I can't accuse the buggers for jumping at her."

His face in a thoughtful frown, Ceadda padded his horse. "She's just too soft and cuddly. To tell the truth, that Hrothgar twit told me I just wanted to fuck her myself, and I think I punched him a bit harder, because I knew he was right and I did not like it."

Together king and herder left the stall, and Éomer noticed the other man's sagged shoulders with compassion. "Ceadda..."

The other man lifted his hand. "Don't try, Éomer King. I watched her work, care for her child, talked to her...There is not fault with her as far as that goes. And yet I don't know what to do. And I think that's what's dragging me down. She is kind, hard-working, and just the thing I would like in my bed... but she won't be a wife. Talking to her is like talking to a child... a sweet guidable child, and yet she looks like a grown woman... and what a nice one." Ceadda shrugged. "It just doesn't feel right."

"Frithuswith knows you were there?"

"Yes, she finally kicked me out of the kitchen, and sent me to get a nap, before leaving. She says, as long as I have any doubts it would be no good idea to take her in, and I know she's right, but I feel guilty nevertheless.

Deep in thought, Éomer went over to the hall. A wife was supposed to be a man's partner and helpmate, and no matter how friendly and cuddly Lynet was, she could never be that partner.

**ooo**

Passing slowly between the rows of the mounds, they approached Edoras late in the evening, the shadows already growing in the folds of the Snowbourn vale while the peaks of the White Mountains still glowed in pink and orange.

One sennight in the Folde, and Erchirion had lost his heart to the eastern plains. He would spend the winter in Edoras and then accompany the herders, leaving for the East Emnet and the plains between the Entwash and the Anduin as soon as the snow melted. They had teased the Gondorean mercilessly, appointing him Ceadda's apprentice and warning him about sharing sweat lodges with Rohirric women, but Erchirion had taken all their jibes in his stride, pointing out that he had to find himself a new home and employment, as his friend Éomer would certainly be too occupied to care for him once he was married.

_Once he was married... _Éomer relished the warmth that pooled through him at that thought. Never had he waited for spring with such eagerness.

His gaze went over to the thick roll on their packhorse, and he could not help a grin. Gytha's blanket. The girl obviously had not been able to make up her mind, whether she wanted to weave a blanket or a carpet, and had produced something in-between: made of soft wool, but much too thick and stiff to be used as a coverlet. And those colours! _A little eccentric _Hrodwyn had called them. Éomer chuckled. What an understatement! They were a clash of the most vivid colours he had ever seen, bright colours in bold patterns, and yet clear and straight like the weaver's features. Truly Gytha's work: solid material, regularly woven and yet jumping at the beholder's senses like the wild gusts of the snow-melting winds in spring. How could a crafted thing radiate such energy! And her smile when he had told her how much he liked it...

Hrodwyn had suggested to use it in Meduseld's future nursery as some kind of carpet for the little ones to learn to crawl, and when he had agreed, telling Gytha that thus she would always be close to her future siblings, the corners of her mouth had nearly reached her ears. _Béma, could that girl grin!_

And yet he was happy to be back at Meduseld. It was eight days now, since he had sent his letter. There was a chance that tomorrow... He tried to push that thought out of his mind. It had taken him nearly an entire week to answer her letter, how could he expect her to respond at once. But all the same that throbbing hope remained, tucked away in some hidden corner of his heart.

**ooo**

Frithuswith greeted them with the welcome cup and then strode at his side through the hall as always, but she was uncommonly quiet. No gossip, no prattle, nothing about the daily pettinesses of Meduseld. He gave her a secret side-glance. Bearing herself erect and determined as always, he could not but notice a certain nervousness and strain.

So he was halfway prepared for something, when she finally addressed him, right in front of the door to the royal quarters. "I need to talk to you, Éomer King. In private."

He nodded. "Certainly. Just let me get out of my boots and fetch me a bite and some ale, and I'm ready to listen to anything you want to tell me." He gave her an assuring smile. "What is it? Lynet again?"

She shook her head. "No, certainly not. I can cope with that on my own. It's..." She turned her head, avoiding his gaze, her fingers twitching nervously. "It's Dol Amroth, Éomer."

* * *

><p><strong>annotations:<strong>

**dohtor: **(Rohirric/Old English) daughter

**proud cut:** A term for stallions that retain sexual behaviours after gelding. Types of stallion-behaviour can vary, but there are geldings who will even cover mares, though naturally there will be no offspring.


	9. Chapter 9

So here finally comes the next chapter, a little later than usual, but you had been warned. ;-)

I am sorry, but I will have to ask you to show a little patience throughout March, as I'm very busy due to lambing time and a lot of preparations for the finals at school. I will update regularly, but I do not think I will manage to post a new chapter every week.

I really appreciate your interest in the story, especially as it is not the ordinary kind of "romance" and I would like to thank all reviewers very much. (Pop in for a solid meal and a beer, if you happen to be in Northern Germany. You can ask a certain horselord for the address! ;-))

And last but not least special thanks to **sep 12** for polishing my language.

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><p><strong>Chapter 9<strong>

For a split second everything solid around him seemed to disappear, leaving him plummeting into a bottomless abyss, before his warrior's instincts set in. Grabbing Frithuswith by the elbow, Éomer propelled her through the door and nearly making her run along the corridor of the royal quarters, he finally shoved her into his study.

Once the door had closed behind them, he let go of her, clutching the back of the massive chair behind his desk instead. "Dol Amroth, you say? Tell me, Frithuswith."

Alarmed by his tight voice, the housekeeper raised her hand. "For Béma's sake! You're misunderstanding, Éomer. There isn't anything wrong, neither here nor in Dol Amroth." She shook her head, her embarrassment obvious. "Blimey, I should have known your brain works like that."

Éomer felt the sudden urge to close his eyes as a wave of relief washed over him, but confined himself to just heaving a deep breath. "Frithuswith, what in Morgoth's name made you phrase your demand to talk with me like that? You really frightened me out of my senses."

The old woman blushed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. It's just... I never..." Fumbling inside her apron, she produced a small square of beige paper.

Éomer had difficulties to suppress a gasp. A letter! Out of its own volition his large hand reached out for it, but Frithuswith shook her head.

"The carter said it was for me, Éomer King." Her blush deepened. "I've never in all my life got a letter. And you know I can't read." Looking rather sheepish, she turned the letter in her fingers. "I didn't want any of those scribblers to get their hands on it, let alone read it to me, and that's why I waited for you to come home."

"When did it arrive?"

"Three days ago. With the last delivery of timber. The material for two granaries went on but yesterday over the Entwade into the East Emnet, the wains with the third having already left the day before." The grey-haired housekeeper waggled her head doubtfully. "I think it makes sense to have a decent granary in the two sole permanent settlements in the East Emnet, and I do appreciate the idea of the first and the last béowbur going into the Westfold as the most affected area, but does it really make sense to build it at Landbúnes on the Isen, when you remove the people from there at the same time?"

"It does, Frithuswith. Not for crops to store, but as a symbol that they will be coming back, that there is a future waiting for them in their old village." He shrugged. "I don't know yet when that may be, but we will come back and again settle the land between Isen and Adorn. That part, too, is Rohan."

The last timber. By the end of the month there would be granaries in all places of the Mark where the old ones had been destroyed, and in some other villages, too, where up to now there had been none to keep the precious grain they needed for sowing next spring. He breathed deep. Next spring... Smiling he looked at the housekeeper. "Well, Frithuswith, perhaps then I should read that letter to you, shouldn't I?"

Strangely shy, the otherwise so resolute woman handed him the letter. "Her signet is on it."

It was not only that. With one look Éomer recognized the distinct script. "This was not written by any scribe, Frithuswith. It's the princess' own handwriting." The blush reappeared on the housekeeper's cheeks, and taking her by the elbow again, though this time much gentler, Éomer led her over to one of the upholstered chairs. "Sit down, Frithuswith, and listen. Your first letter and one from your queen to-be at the same time."

Chuckling at the woman's flustered face, he started to read. _"Westu Frithuswith hal.._. He startled, realising what he had read. His eyes flew over the page. No doubt... But how could that be?

"What is it?" Frithuswith asked, alarmed by Éomer's hesitation.

Éomer shook his head. "Nothing. It's just that she writes in the language of the Mark, not in Westron as I anticipated."

Looking up, his eyes met Frithuswith's scrutinizing gaze. "She doesn't speak the language of the Mark, does she?"

He shrugged. "She's learning to, but I don't expect her to be able to phrase anything like this letter. She must have told Beorhtraed, the scribe, to write the letter for her."

"And then she took the trouble to copy it? Why should she do so?" Frithuswith asked with a frown.

Did Lothíriel expect the housekeeper to be able to read? Éomer did not think so. Even in Gondor most of the commoners did not know how to read and write. He could not help a smile. Doubtlessly Lothíriel was preparing a foothold in Meduseld, and she was clever enough to try to win over the most important person for Meduseld's functioning and peace first. And what was better than to show thoughtfulness? "I think she wanted to give you the feeling that the words are hers and directly meant for you, therefore she wrote in her own hand. And she wanted to make sure that you understood what she wrote without the necessity of someone translating it for you. Shall I go on?"

The housekeeper nodded, her hands folded firmly in her lap. Éomer cleared his voice:

_Westu Frithuswith hal!_

_Together with this letter I am sending a few things I noticed Éomer King liked when he was in Dol Amroth. I would appreciate these things to be on the king's table over the winter, but as I know that heavy rainfall on the Gondorean side of the White Mountains might make the roads impassable soon, I am using the opportunity of the last carts with timber crossing the mountains to have these items transported to Edoras. _

_The king told me about you and your efficient care for the household, so I think you will know best when to present what on the king's table, or what to use the spices and other ingredients for. I have labelled every container to make its contents clear._

Éomer looked up and met the housekeeper's gaze. Spices from the south! They were costly beyond imagination, and even for the king's table only used for festive meals. Frithuswith was wetting her lips nervously. Hiding his smile, Éomer continued to read.

_There is just one thing I would definitely ask of you. Éomer King told me about a certain kind of bun you bake for Yule. With this consignment I am sending the ingredients as far as I was able to guess them from what the king told me. I would like you to use them for this year's Yule-baking, thus giving me the opportunity to be with you._

He remembered having talked to her about Yule, but he was not sure if he really had mentioned the buns. But it did not matter. The idea of all the revellers at the Yule feast knowing that the future queen had provided the buns was splendid.

_There also is one small parcel for the king himself and I would like you to give it to him personally._

For a split second he wondered what she might have sent for him while he went on reading.

_Please feel free to tell me what other things for the household of Meduseld you would like me to send. I will be glad to do so if it can be had in Gondor. Transport by horse should be possible at least till the frost sets in and afterwards things could be sent via Minas Tirith._

_Lothíriel of Dol Amroth_

Lowering the letter, Éomer grinned at Frithuswith. "Shall we go down to the kitchens to have a look at the labels or do you want me to read out the letter once again?"

With one energetic movement she stood and grabbed the paper. "We'll get you out of that armour first, and then we'll have a look at the goods. Considering the number of barrels, casks and baskets, you liked quite a lot of things in Dol Amroth."

**ooo**

And so the very hour the king of the Mark had come back to Meduseld, he found himself in one of the storerooms, reading out labels to his housekeeper. He wondered, how many of those small carts had been needed to transport all the things that were stacked around him. Barrels filled with sweet-smelling raisins, others with roasted and salted almonds, caskets with dried figs, jars with dark aromatic pine honey, sacks with walnuts, several hams wrapped in lime-soaked canvas, cheese, pistachios, small barrels with wheat flour of the finest sieved quality... the supplies seemed endless and more than once they opened one of the containers to taste the contents. Slowly the expression on Frithuswith face changed from being taut with curiosity to a delighted smile.

Finally they had checked all but a wooden casket labelled "Spices." Prying the top open, they beheld neatly packed stoneware jars, the lids sealed with wax. Each lid had a small label, naming the spice it contained. Carefully Éomer took the single jars out of the casket and lined them up on the bigger ones standing nearby: several were labelled "Cinnamon", others held different kinds of peppers, coriander, cumin, dried meadowsweet, and deep down in the cask, there were two with cardamom.

He read out the names to Frithuswith, whose cheeks had started to glow. He was vaguely aware that he was digging up a treasure in front of her eyes, but he was nevertheless puzzled, to see her hands tremble, when she reached out for one of the cardamom jars. Carefully she removed the wax lining and opened the lid. Tiny greenish pods came into Éomer's view, and almost tenderly the old housekeeper took one, rolling the pod between forefinger and thumb and breathing in the sweet and aromatic smell. And then to his utter surprise, Éomer saw two big tears slowly rolling down the woman's wrinkly face.

"Frithuswith?" He did not know what to do, but Frithuswith smiled at him through her tears. "Ah, boy, don't you heed an old silly woman like me." She sighed and wiped her eyes with a corner of her apron. "It's just that cardamom was Théoden King's favourite spice. He still remembered it from his childhood in Gondor, and he and Théodred were ever so delighted when we could come by some for the Yule bakery, as it is so incredibly expensive, and there always was so little on the market to be had and now..." Her voice tapering out she pointed at the jars.

Éomer swallowed. Spices... a rich gift for the king of the Mark. A gift Théoden should have received or Théodred. And here he stood, watching an old woman cry for the two persons her heart had cared for most during the last forty years. What if they had not fallen? He would resign kingship without hesitation, glad to have them back, but would he ever have met the princess of Dol Amroth had he not been the king of Rohan? The thought was nauseating. She probably would have married that Radhruin from Pelargir... or would Imrahil have considered marrying her to Théodred despite the vast difference of age?

A hearty punch in his ribs by Frithuswith ended his broodings. "Stop fretting, you dolt. It won't bring them back. They fell, both noble and brave, and neither of them would begrudge you a single grain of your luck and joy. Be glad, remember them and try to be a good king in their stead." Though her voice still was a bit wobbly with emotion, her bearing and facial expression was that of the familiar resolute housekeeper again, and Éomer was thankful for it. Tilting her head, she smiled at him wryly. "Well, Éomer King, when will you unpack your personal gift? Or do you want to hide in your study doing so, afraid you might have to share otherwise?"

Smiling, he reached for the small wooden casket he had spotted and set aside soon after they had started to peruse the supplies. Now he opened it under Frithuswith's curious gaze. Inside the cask was a cylindrical box made of dark-brown polished leather, embossed with what seemed to be some kind of nut-tree. The space between the walls of the casket and the box had been carefully stuffed with straw, hinting at some breakable object. Éomer opened the lid and cautiously took out a pear-shaped flask made of flawlessly limpid glass. He gaped. Only once he had seen anything like that, on Aragon's table in the Citadel of Minas Tirith, when they had drunk their private farewell after Éowyn's wedding.

Frithuswith stepped up beside him and gently trailed a finger down the smooth transparent surface, her eyes wide with admiration. Sure, they had glass in Meduseld, though none was produced in the Mark, but the goblets and flasks were rather thick-walled, and the glass itself was blistered and had a greenish tint. It was nothing one could compare with that perfect vessel in front of them.

The bottle was filled with some gold-brown liquid, and when he tried to remove the stopper, he found that there was a smallish glass cup put over it, its measures resembling that of the small cup Lothíriel and he had shared after their day out on the bay of Cobas Haven.

The liquid smelt totally different from what she had served him though, and when he carefully tasted it, he found it sweet and aromatic with a distinct and slightly bitter taste of almonds. Smiling, he offered the cup to Frithuswith, and the old woman smacked her lips in delight after tasting it.

It was when he wanted to put the bottle back into the box that he saw the letter at its bottom. He still stood, the letter in hand, staring down at the cream-coloured paper, when the noise of heavy boots and laughing male voices announced some intruders, and just when he shoved the letter into his tunic, the door opened, and Erchirion and Éothain burst into the room.

"So here you are hiding!" Erchirion's laughter rang out. "Blimey Éothain, you said my sister sent some victuals, but this is certainly enough to open a bazaar with Gondorean food in the streets of Edoras."

Scanning the labelled jars on top of the casket, he gave an admiring whistle and reached for one of the vessels. "Chili-paste. And there also is a second one." He grinned delightedly. "Enough to set the entire population of Edoras on fire."

Frithuswith frowned. "What?"

Chuckling, the prince of Dol Amroth pointed at Éomer. "Ask your king. It's made of hot peppers and some other spices and he nearly incinerated himself with it when he was in Gondor."

Éomer could not help a grin, remembering their lobster eating on Tol Cobas. "It's really very hot, Frithuswith, but nice if you use it sparingly."

"Pha, sparingly!" Erchirion snorted. "Give me a nice piece of meat or fish, some bread and chillies and you can keep all the dainties of Middle Earth to yourself."

"Meat?" Éomer grinned. "Your Lady Sister provided some ham. Seems she knows your gluttony."

"Ham?" Erchirion raised his brows hopefully. "And maybe some feta cheese as well?"

"There is a barrel with salted cheese, if you mean that." Frithuswith did not manage to totally suppress the mirth in her voice.

Rubbing his large hands, Erchirion winked at the housekeeper. "Frithuswith, you will get a special place in my heart if you prepare a supper containing these decadent Gondorean foodstuffs for us." With a jerk of his head he included Éomer and Éothain, and then he spotted the bottle. "Don't tell me she sent you some of that stuff as well. Man, she must really love you!"

Smiling, Éomer filled the tiny cup for him, and Erchirion took it carefully, sniffing the liquor delightfully and then taking a sip, rolling the liquid in his mouth before he finally swallowed it.

Éothain watched him suspiciously, a deep frown on his face. When Erchirion held out the cup to him, he raised his hands defensively. "No, I'm not drinking any of that Gondorean swill. My head still throbs if I so much as think of that rotgut your brother served us that night at Dol Amroth."

Erchirion shook his head. "I wouldn't dare offer you anything like that. This stuff is a liquor my mother and my sister make solely for our family. Don't ask me what from. There certainly is brandy in it and almonds and oranges, but I always cared more for drinking it than for making it." He shot Éomer a broad grin. "You certainly are a lucky bastard, Brother."

Still doubtful, Éothain sniffed the potion. "It smells a bit like mead," he finally admitted.

Erchirion nodded. "There certainly is some honey in it, and the headache also is comparable. It's delicious, but it gives you the mother of hangovers if you drink too much of it."

Hesitantly Éothain drank, and immediately his face cleared up, like the sun peeping out again after a heavy shower. "Béma's horse, that's a nice one! I could get used to it."

"So could I," Erchirion agreed. Only Frithuswith's quick intervention kept him from refilling the cup. Determinedly the old housekeeper stoppered the flask, snatching the cup out of Erchirion's hands at the same time.

"Get yourselves upstairs to the king's rooms, all of you, and I'll send you some supper." Turning to Éomer, she handed him the bottle with a smirk. "You had better remember that it's Commoners' Council tomorrow morning, Éomer King."

**ooo**

Soon the three men found themselves in Éomer's study, a large tray with wafer-thin slices of ham, little cubes of white salted cheese made from ewe's milk, a small bowl of chili-paste and others with a variety of pickles in front of them. With the specialities from Dol Amroth Frithuswith had served a loaf of the dark and hearty bread of the Mark, as well as some impressive jug of excellent ale.

While Erchirion tucked in with obvious appetite, Éothain was much more reluctant, and confined himself to ham, cheese and bread, giving the unfamiliar food a wide berth. Both men were soon engaged in a vivid exchange on horses in general and the royal steeds at Aldburg in particular, not noticing that Éomer did not participate.

His mug in hand, Éomer watched his two friends thoughtfully. He felt slightly dizzy, having downed several mugs in quite a short time without really noticing it. He realised that he was exactly in that state of drunkenness when your mind starts to go in circles and your thoughts are about to slur, well before your language does. He tried to keep his thoughts straight. The happy grin on Erchirion's face while he munched slice after slice, generously spread with chili paste made him wonder. Had Erchirion missed the typical food of the Falas that much already after little more than a sennight in the Mark? Would Lothíriel miss it? And would it be the only thing she craved for?

He looked down at the slice of bread in front of him. He had not eaten anything yet. Ham and chilies... His memory went back to the day on Tol Cobas. Lobster and garlic-sauce, the smell of peaches and her incredible smile... That smile he longed to see... Would she keep her smile, living in the Mark? He had worried before that she might miss the sea, the salty tang of the air, the screeching of the gulls... but he had not realised that it could be the little things of daily life she might want for. Sure, he had written to her about bringing the things she liked and would not want to go without with her... But would that be enough?

Had not he himself whined about something as trivial as porridge? He scratched his jaw. They had sheep in the Mark, and in the Wold they produced different kinds of cheese from ewes' milk... There certainly could be found some adventurous shepherd or dairymaid from Dol Amroth to teach them how to make a cheese like the one of the Falas. And garlic grew in the Mark, too, and was a favourite addition to casseroles and stews. But there still was the problem of the other spices.

He felt Éothain's eyes on him and took a bite of the bread, just to be spared talking. His gaze fell on the delicate flask on his desk, and he suppressed a sigh. Such unbelievable wealth! With a pang he remembered Frithuswith's tears. A handful of cardamom pods for the king's table once a year had been the ultimate luxury and delight for Théoden King and his housekeeper and here the princess of Dol Amroth sent the expensive spice by the pound.

He had been aware of the vast cultural differences from the very beginning, but never doubted Lothíriel's ability to adapt and understand. But would she be able to cope with such immense discrepancy in the standards of living? He had always only seen her person, the woman he admired and cared for, the wife he wanted to live with, never the princess who was used to all kind of luxuries and probably took them for granted.

Leaning back with a satisfied grunt, Erchirion wiped his mouth. "Blimey, that was good."

Trying to keep his demeanour as casual as possible, Éomer asked: "Did you miss the typical food of the Falas?"

"Miss it?" Straightening in his chair, Erchirion shook his head. "No, certainly not. It's nothing I would say I could not go without, but wouldn't it be a crying shame to let a chance like that pass?"

Éomer knew he better had leave it like that, but something, some subliminal feeling of hurt and aggression spurred him on."Well, you were quite delighted seeing the stuff in the storeroom and you were more than eager to talk Frithuswith into serving you some."

Even without looking into Éothain's direction, Éomer felt the captain's eyes on himself, like two cerulean drills. Éomer put his mug on the table and reached for the jug, only to find it empty. Certainly Éothain had not had more than one or two mugs at the most, still being that alert. How many did that make for the other two of them? And what was wrong with him? Was he really on the brink of starting a drunken quarrel with Erchirion?

But the Gondorean just gave him one of his broad open smiles. "Ah, Éomer, it's a matter of opportunity, you see? Like coming home to that guest house I'm living in after a sennight out on the plains and finding Ymma scrubbing the floor." Tilting his head, he closed one eye and moved his large hands in a distinct pantomime. "Can you imagine that impressive rump, and what with the woman being on her knees and… Ah, well, it's no wonder that I got some cramp in all my eleven fingers." He shrugged, still grinning. "If I can get some nice arse to grab I certainly will grab it, but that doesn't mean that there is nothing on my mind except fucking Ymma on the floor."

Éothain audibly cleared his voice. "You had better keep your fingers off that woman. She is not one to mess around with."

Erchirion laughed. "Oh, I know all too well. Frithuswith, the mighty dragon that guards the Golden Hall, told me so the very day I arrived. I'm afraid Roth and I kicked over the traces a bit last time we were here." Emptying his mug, Erchirion shook his head. "No, Éothain, don't you worry. I'm not keen on going down into history as the first prince of Dol Amroth who was battered to death with a frying pan." He turned to Éomer. "Anyway, I suppose we'd better call it a day. The ale is up, not to say anything about the food, and I doubt your housekeeper would be pleased if we demanded another jug."

Éothain chuckled softly. "Certainly not. It's Commoners' Council tomorrow morning, and she takes it seriously. You've had at least six pints each in quite a short time."

Erchirion shrugged. "Salty and spicy food demands a certain amount of drink. But why did you sip like some Gondorean virgin?"

With a broad smile, Éothain rose. "Too much drink might kindle desire but it hampers performance. I've spent the last two sennights in the barracks with the new guards, but tonight I'm going to sleep, or rather not sleep, at home."

With a sigh, Erchirion followed the captain's example. "Well, Brother, let's hit the sack. As we can't have a cuddly wife to spend the night with, we at least did well to numb the sting of envy."

**ooo**

Once the door closed behind them, Éomer retrieved the letter out of his tunic. The paper was warm from his body heat and he could not help stroking it tenderly. ..._Sun-warmed, cream-coloured skin..._ He sighed. He longed to read the letter and yet was reluctant to open it. When had she written that letter? At least eleven days ago; several days before she could have got the last one he had written to her. Since when had she planned to send all these delicacies? And what had he to give?

His gaze fell on the small pile of carved limewood slats. He had finished carving the letter case for Lothíriel, and now only the polishing of the wood and the fitting of the slats was left to be done. He had wanted it to be her case explicitly, and therefore it bore no typical sign or symbol of the Mark. No sun or horses were carved into the smooth surface of the wood, and the only reminder of the tradition of the north was the pattern of two ropes, endlessly entwined, that encircled the otherwise unadorned slats for the sides.

The lid he had adorned with an additional carving, though; a variation of her own design for the browpieces of the granaries. Tenderly his thumb slid over one of the two flowers that flanked a sheaf of six ears of barley in the centre of the slat. _Their dream. _And yet: simple patterns cut out of plain material. A present every farmhand could craft for his sweetheart.

He gritted his teeth. It was nothing but a small pile of carved wood beside the exquisite elegance of the transparent flask. The present he had worked on every evening of the past week suddenly felt so mingy and pathetic, and he realised that for the first time in his life he saw Rohirric culture through Gondorean eyes.

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><p><strong>Annotation:<strong>

Glass, especially clear, transparent glass was very precious in the Middle Ages in Europe, as the ingredients to produce it were not available. Also the art of producing it had been lost after the decline of the Roman Empire.

Glass that was produced in Germany (Waldglas) at that time bore the described characteristics: a greenish tint and blisters of different sizes. Still it was rather expensive and could only be afforded by noble and/or rich people.


	10. Chapter 10

Thanks for reading, subscribing, lurking and whatever else you do. And a big virtual almond-strawberry sundae for all who took the trouble to review! (If you don't like strawberry, what about advocaat? Home made of course ;-))

Special thanks go to **Sep 12 **for her great help with my errant commas and infinitives despite all the drudgery at work. **You are really great!** I'll get Frithuswith to cook your favourite meal! ;-)

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><p><strong>Chapter 10<strong>

Regretting every single mug he had drunk, Éomer stared at the letter. There had been so much reading between the lines in the other ones, so many things she had made him rather assume than know... It had been difficult enough with a clear head, so how was he to cope with it in his befuddled state? And yet he longed to read it, needed to, craved for it like some of those poor war invalids who only made it into the next day with the help of booze and poppy.

Breaking the seal, he unfolded the paper carefully, his smoothing of the folds more a caress than a specific movement. And then, with his heart beating in his throat, he started to read.

_Dear Éomer,_

_Most items have been packed, and the carts for Rohan are going to leave tomorrow at first light. I feel strange, uneasy and jumpy, much like when I sent the first timber for the granaries. The idea to send all kind of foodstuffs you might like seemed such a glorious idea in the beginning and it was fun to ask everybody to recall what had been on the table during your stay and what you had preferred. But now I nearly feel as unsure as I felt when sending the first delivery of timber._

_And I asked Beorhtraed about Mettare, because Father remembered that it was one of the most important feasts in the Riddermark. The scribe was very swift to correct me, telling me it was called Yule in the Mark and I had the impression he really enjoyed explaining the Rohirric traditions around it. That gave me the idea to provide the ingredients for the Yule buns, as it would make you think of me when you tasted them._

_You had mentioned the housekeeper of Meduseld in but a few sentences in one of our conversations, but your voice had been so full of affection that I thought I would be able to communicate my wish to her. But then, when I talked to Beorhtraed about the phrasing of the letter, his description of her gave me the image of some kind of stern general, and I'm not so sure now if she will look at my attempt favourably or will rather see it as an outsider's interference. But whatever her reaction will be, it cannot be helped._

_Erchirion has been gone a week now and I know there cannot be any answer to my letter yet, but I am waiting so desperately for your reply. I know there is no reason to complain, as it is only three days that I got that lovely letter of yours. I have to admit I gaped when I opened it and then I just could not stop laughing. I counted how many times you wrote my name: 187 times! For Uinen's sweet mercy, how long did that take you? You are incredible! I can so well imagine your grin, writing it. How I am looking forward to seeing that grin on your face again, or just that twinkle in your eyes that gives you away even if you pretend to be serious._

_Oh, and talking about grinning: Erchirion will certainly tell you to switch to using paper when writing to me – at least that is what he threatened me with – but do not listen to him! He is a moron! Keep using vellum, will you? That is part of what makes a letter your letter to me. It is different to the paper used in Gondor, sturdier, more durable, and though it is thin, it still is leather and I like the touch and the smell of it. And if I put my nose close to it I can even smell a whiff of juniper. Your skin and your hair smelt of it, of juniper and sun, that afternoon in my parents' garden._

_I am feeling so foolish, so different from my usual self. There are even moments when it angers me to have given you so much sway over me. I know you never demanded anything like that, but it has happened nevertheless. My thoughts, my feelings revolve around you and I regret that I did not ask you more things about yourself while I had you here in Dol Amroth. And yet, as short as the time was that we had together, how many things have we talked about, trusting each other from the very first moment! How confident I felt in your presence and how I wish we had had just some more days. But perhaps then it would be even more difficult and painful to be separated from you, as we would have become even closer._

_I hope you like the liquor. It is a traditional recipe of Mother's family and since I was old enough I have made it together with her every summer for the family. Be wary and do not let Erchirion drink it up! He is addicted to it, but he got his fill before he left and shared it with his friends._

_The flask is one of my mother's heirlooms, a piece of booty her grandfather brought home to Tol Falas from the attack on Umbar. I was to take it with me when I left Dol Amroth for the Mark as part of my dowry, but as Mother and I will go to Minas Tirith together after Sídhríl's lying-in, we decided to send it now, as there certainly is no other vessel that brings out the colour of the liquor in a more impressive way._

_I have to pack the flask now, so the carter can stack the casket in the reserved space. It will take at least eight days till the carts reach Edoras, till you can taste the liquor, till you will read my letter. How I wish I could at least see you reading it._

_Yours, Lothíriel_

_PS: I read my letter again, and I am afraid you will shake your head at all my whining and being pathetic. But I cannot help it: I feel like some stray cat caught by the winter's rain and I long to be warmed up in the shelter of your embrace. L._

He stared at the postscript, unable to avert his eyes. There was nothing to be read between any lines whatsoever. The sentences were clear to the degree of being blunt: She longed to be with him and she wanted to be loved and protected by him. _What an incredible moron he had been! _It felt like a stab when he realised how many days it still must have taken until she had got the letter he had written before leaving for Aldburg. He groaned inwardly. He had made her wait for his answer, had caused her to feel sad, perhaps even desperate; only because he had been reluctant to admit that her letter had simply unhinged him. And after having made her wait that long, he had asked her to answer soon. He deserved to be kicked! And certainly in a place where it really hurt! He had had an idea of his selfishness before, had admitted it, but now it seemed to him so abominable... Not for a split second did it strike him that his assumptions might be caused or at least heightened by the amount of ale he had drunk. He only registered that she was unhappy and he felt that he was the reason for it... and even if not, it certainly was his foremost task to comfort her.

His jaw sent with determination, he reached for parchment and quill. He had made her unhappy once by letting her wait for his answer. Something like that was never to happen again. He was not that drunk to be past any kind of doubt concerning his abilities to compose a letter, but he was drunk enough for his compunction towards Lothíriel to rule out anything else. He would tell her the truth, admit his faults and beg her forgiveness.

Dipping the quill awkwardly, he started to write.

_Lothíriel, my poor love, I am sorry. I am drunk and I am a moron. I read your letter and I wish so much you were here and I could embrace you, give you all the shelter you want, warm you, do everything you want me to do._

_My thoughts and emotions are stirred up like a pack of kennel hounds at the sound of the hunting horn: everyone is racing into a different direction. I should have written so much earlier. To know that you still had to wait so many days for a letter from me after you had written the one I hold in my hands scratches my heart raw._

_You say that you are angry because you feel I hold sway over you. My love, you know that I do not aim at anything like that. I know how much you hate to lose control. But see: I am a warrior, a leader, captain and king, and yet, don't you hold sway over me? Don't you know that you have cast a spell over me? Lothíriel, I read your letters, and your words lead me into an enchanted realm. I still cannot grasp it. I keep telling myself it is only letters, little tiny black marks on beige paper, but they suck me in. You write that you remember, and through a secret trapdoor I fall into your memory, our memory, that we share._

_And I don't just remember. I feel you, I smell you, hear your voice and I'm helpless like in a spell-woven dream. A dream I do not want to wake from._

_You mentioned the beaches of Dol Amroth in the morning, and there I was: My bare feet in the wet sand, my hair tussled by the salty winds, my ears filled with the cries of the gulls and my body aching with desire for your touch._

_I wish I had never agreed to that dratted wedding contract. Seven months! I should not have stopped that day in the garden. I should have risked the scandal. I should have simply abducted you. Would you have wanted me to? Is that not what barbarians are supposed to do?_

_I know that I am writing nonsense. I'm not that drunk to believe I could have done it. But I wish I could have acted according to my feelings._

_I told you in my last letter that I knew I was selfish, but until today I had not realised how selfish I am. I was afraid you might miss your family, the sea, the climate of the Falas, but seeing your gifts today made me realise, how different our lives are._

_While being in Dol Amroth, I never beheld the princess. I remember so many facets of your personality: the proud and vengeful woman, the caring hostess, the loving sister, the stern warrior, the reckless pirate, the able healer and the witty jester. I remember them all, and they bring vivid images before my inner eye, but I have no real memory of your face during the festivities for the conclusion of the trade agreement. The princess simply seems to have escaped my attention._

_And then all these riches arrived, and I saw what you are used to, how vast the differences between our ways and standards of living are, and suddenly I noticed that I cannot offer you anything similar. That moment was horrible. I felt as if my mount had been killed beneath me in the middle of a battle. _

_Call me blind, call me stupid, I really had not realised before. I had simply taken my way of living as the only one possible, had not realised you might miss your way of life. I am sorry for being so selfish. _

_I did not know what to do and I got drunk and I nearly quarrelled with Erchirion. Not because he did or said anything offensive, but just because I felt so helpless and could not do anything against it nor blame it on anyone. I would have preferred fighting a host of orcs to that realisation. Do not worry, he did not notice, because he is as drunk as me. And we did not drink the liquor but ale. That liquor is really delicious, and but for Frithuswith, who snatched it out of your brother's greedy paws, he would certainly have downed all of it._

_Frithuswith cried when she unpacked the spices and I felt so terrible. She cried because she remembered Théoden King and how much he had liked cardamom. Lothíriel, I felt that I had no_ _right to be King of the Mark. Her tears made me feel like an usurper. It should have been Théoden receiving these presents, not Éomer. _

_And yet, the idea I might not have come to know you tortures me, and the thought that you might have married someone else drives me mad. I need you. I need you so much I cannot tell. Lothíriel, you counted how many times I wrote your name, and you tell me it made you happy. Know then that every beat of my heart calls out your name, sings it day and night, be I awake or in slumber._

_I am so terribly sorry for making you wait for an answer to your last letter. I did not know what to answer. I was ashamed to admit how much I need you and how easily I get lost in the sunlit gardens of your memory. I could not concentrate and I felt that any answer would be just poor and pathetic._

_Lothíriel, my enchantress, my bold pirate, I promise I will not let you wait for a letter ever again. Most probably this letter is stupid and pathetic and my drunkenness is but a poor excuse. I will not read it again, will not check it, but treat it as if the words were spoken to you. No one can catch a spoken word and stuff it back into his mouth again, and so be it. I will send this right now and rather take your frown at my muddled thoughts upon me than live with the idea that you are sad because I did not answer forthwith._

_I love you, Lothíriel, more than I can say. Éomer_

Putting down the quill, he reached for sealing wax and signet and sealed the rolled-up parchment. It was late and he knew that as important as the letter might be to him personally, that did not justify sending a courier up the precarious mountain road to the Dimholt at once. But nonetheless he wanted the errand rider to leave as soon as possible.

Snatching the vellum, he made for the guard room at the end of the corridor. He was sure he did not sway, nor did his language slur as he ordered the guards to make sure that a courier left for Dol Amroth at first light the next morning, but the knowing glances the guards exchanged left no doubt about their assumption. He probably had provided them with a nice topic for gossip, but he could not care less. He wanted the letter to be on its way as soon as possible, not only to make it reach Lothíriel at the earliest possible day, but also, as he grudgingly admitted to himself, to eliminate the temptation to read it again and probably change his mind about sending it.

Back in his study he took the candle from his desk and went over to the adjoining sleeping room, placing it on the chest at the foot of the large bed. Much too large... and much too empty. _Five more months! _With a sigh he started to strip, his mind vivid with images of her reaction to his letter.

Drawing the heavy curtains aside, he opened the window to let the chilly night breeze float into the room. He needed a clear head tomorrow morning, and he would sleep much better in the fresh air. Far in the west, the peaks of the Eraid Nimrais loomed, dark shapes in the dim light of the waning moon. He could not see the moon itself, as his windows opened to the west and it had not wandered around that far yet, but its light was still strong enough for him to make out the shapes of the roofs of Edoras below him. Was she awake too, pacing her room in the moonlight? Five more months to wait. The Hunter's moon had already passed, and soon the slopes of the mountains would be shrouded in white, a beautiful but cold splendour.

The cold splendour of winter... Would she like the present he was going to send her? He shook his head, realising that he felt exactly the same as her in her attempts at sending him presents. He had been so eager; it had seemed so much fun to him when he had called on the best weaver of Edoras the very morning after having received Lothíriel's letter in which she described herself as a hothouse plant that had to be kept warm.

Wilbur had said that she and her daughter would need at least a complete month to produce it, but would it really look like he had imagined it in the end? And would Lothíriel still be in Dol Amroth then? Perhaps he should send it to Minas Tirith to be on the safe side. A smile stole into his face. Yes, he would send it there, a piece of Rohirric warmth to welcome her in that city of stone.

The night wind sent shivers down his naked body. He had better slip under the duvet and try to sleep, but instead he walked over to his study again and pulled out her last letter. Feeling slightly sobered, he was able to read her letter with greater composure, and it was his mind that reacted now despite his strong emotions.

And that made him stop and frown when he came to the line telling him that the vellum smelled of juniper. Reaching for a sheet of vellum, he carefully sniffed it. Nothing. Only when he put the sheet so close that his nostrils literally touched the parchment, did he sense a slight whiff of juniper. Puzzled he looked at it. He had never noticed before, but perhaps the box it was kept in was made of juniper wood or had been polished with juniper oil. He sniffed again. The smell was certainly there. And then it hit him like the hoof of a heavy horse: Only with your nose directly on the vellum could you notice the smell, and that meant that not only her nose was on it, but... He felt his heartbeat speed up. Had she really kissed his letter? It could not be different!

Sweeping the paper up, he gathered her letter to his bare chest, pressing it to his heart. Thus he had held her hand, when he had told her about the Éoredheap Segnung, about Gytha, when he had trusted her with his very soul that evening on the battlement of the Dol Amroth castle. He closed his eyes, giving in to the sensation of joy mingled with desire. _She had kissed his letter. _Breathing deep, he raised the page to his lips and tenderly kissed her name.

**ooo**

Having taken a hearty swig, Éomer wiped his moustache and looked down the long table with content and comfort. Commoners' Council. If there was any official assembly he liked it was this one. There was nothing of the annoying and bothersome rivalry that much too often for his taste troubled the atmosphere at the meetings of the lords, nor had he to face the niggling complaint and blather of neighbours begrudging each other some minor patches of field that got on his nerves so often during his regular rounds through the Mark.

Certainly this was an official council meeting, and they talked about the problems that had occurred throughout the past year and those that had to be tackled during the next, but it was more like a collective breathtaking, a break before facing the next round.

By far not as impressive as the religious rituals and festivities dividing the year, it nevertheless had some festive character. Nothing great, no raucous affair, just the leaders and convenors of the different quarters of Edoras and the headmen of the nearby villages holding council once a year and sharing a good meal afterwards.

And what he enjoyed most: Though he had to preside, it was not in his function as King of the Riddermark but simply as Lord of Edoras. Like they met here in the ancient hall of Meduseld, men would meet at Aldburg, at the Hornburg, at Snowbourne. Everywhere throughout the Mark, commoners would sit at the local lord's table today after having held council over the affairs of the people on the first Sunday after the Hunter's Moon. And the lord would but be the host, an honourable man amongst honourable men, sharing word and meat with them.

The main topic of their discussion had been the necessary road work up to Harrowdale from where the men of Snowbourne would take over, but also the possibility of setting up a fair outside the walls of Edoras next summer had been talked over.

In one way or another everybody seemed to have profited from the trade agreement, but there was also the justifiable fear that a constant demand through the Gondorean merchants might raise the price for wool and cloth inside the Mark unduly. That certainly was an aspect he had to keep in mind.

The meal after the actual council had been simple but delicious: pork roast with roasted potatoes and a rich gravy flavoured with dried mushrooms and just a hint of allspice and coriander. Éomer grinned. Those spices had no doubt come in handy. And he was almost certain that some of the fine flour had gone into the fluffy bread rolls that had been served with the meal. Frithuswith certainly knew how to make use of Lothíriel's present. He took another draught. The same excellent ale he had drunk the night before, obviously brewed for a special occasion like the present one. He had already finished eating and while some of the men were still wiping the last drops of gravy off their plates with the help of some bread, maids put the dessert on the board: big bowls with pieces of stewed apples, mixed with raisins and faintly smelling of honey and cinnamon. And alongside they put slightly smaller bowls with thick sweet cream and large plates with nut cakes.

Éomer reached for one of the bowls and helped himself to a generous fill. He loved all kinds of fruit desserts and by the happy grin of most of the men he was not the only one. The apples were delicious, the sweet liquid they swam in having slightly taken the flavour of the raisins, and when he tasted the cream, he found it spiced with meadowsweet.

Soon the bowls were emptied, and after a last mug for the road, the men rose to leave. That was the moment for Frithuswith to act as the hléafdige of the house. Everyone had brought a small present of food, more a token of gratitude than anything of value: a jar of honey, a small bag of hazelnuts, some dried fruit, a smoked trout... and now they would receive the traditional gift in return: a small loaf of bread with the symbol of the sun cut into the crust.

Frithuswith waited with some maids at the doors to the hall, to deal out the bread. But there were also a basket with small containers made of birch-bark and another one full of little tied up bundles of linen. Holding up her hands, Frithuswith demanded silence. "Hear me, headmen of Edoras, guests of this house. In these containers there is an assortment of spices your wives will be happy to have for the Yule baking. The future queen of the Mark has sent them for me to deal with as I see fit. And what could be more fit than to share and enjoy together what is given freely?"

Murmurs of approval could be heard from the men, but Frithuswith continued. "The bundles contain raisins, and it is for your wives to decide how to use them, but you have tasted one dish they go well with today."

The housekeeper's statement was met by common consent, and as she handed the first loaf to Wulfric, the well-respected saddler of Edoras, the man took it with a slight bob of the head and then spoke up, addressing her with a wide grin. "Aye, Frithuswith of Meduseld, we surely enjoyed that stewed fruit and doubtless it was a good way to show how the tartness of the Riddermark and the sweetness of the South might blend together and please the people."

Applause and laughter rose all around, mixed with two or three ribald remarks, and then the men one by one collected their gifts, slowing down the process now and then, as some of them opened the containers to eye and sniff the foreign spices with curiosity.

Smiling Éomer stood and watched Frithuswith. Tall and erect she stood, her white hair gathered at the nape of her neck in a simple braid, distributing the traditional bread and Lothíriel's gifts to the delighted headmen. It would be Lothíriel's task next year. He heaved a breath. Next year... and here she was already present. _The sweetness of the South..._ He could not help a grin. They would rather find her a wind from the sea; strong, reliable and providing the necessary rain to keep the plains of the Mark green. He wondered if the courier with last night's letter had already reached Upbourne. He did not remember the words he had written, only the emotion that had made him write them, and for a split second he thought, that it was just as well that the letter was out of his reach now.

Having handed out the last loaf, Frithuswith looked up and their gaze met. A wry smile played in the corners of her eyes. "Well, Éomer Cyning?"

Éomer shrugged. "She said you would know best how to use her gift, and you certainly do."

The housekeeper's smile turned into a flashing grin. "She's clever, that princess of yours, Éomer. She could have ordered me about, but she asked me, giving reasons for her wishes. And she left me in charge of a real treasure. She certainly knows how to deal with people."

Éomer shrugged. "She certainly does, Frithuswith. But she is not scheming."

The old woman guffawed. "Ah, Éomer King, a little scheming at the right time and place is just what it needs to run a household. And a realm", she added, winking at him.

Still laughing, she left the hall, and not for the first time Éomer had the feeling that the important women in his life were simply cleverer than him. His mother, Éowyn, Frithuswith, and now Lothíriel; all of them intelligent and strong-willed women and he loved and admired them for it.

Running his hand over his rather full stomach, he decided to go down to the training grounds for a round of sparring. He had missed out the usual training this morning and he had better move a bit now, lest he soon split at the seams due to the life of plenty that seemed to prevail at Meduseld at the moment.

**ooo**

When Winfrid entered the king's rooms to help him don his armour, Éomer at once spotted the most impressive black eye. He said nothing. Boys were boys, and that included a mouse now and then. There was no need to interfere with it. And if there was anything serious behind it, he would learn soon enough where, or rather who, it had come from. And no mistake: When they had stabled their horses after sparring, Osulf, the stable master, approached him.

Éomer grinned. "Are you going to inform me who decorated my squire?"

To the king's surprise the stable master's face stayed grave. "Sure, Éomer Cyning, but that's not the most important thing. The fact is that Winfrid, for all his knowledge about horses, started a fight in the stable aisle."

"He did what?" Éomer did not believe his ears. Certainly all the lads had some fights amongst each other, that was nothing out of the ordinary, and he himself had been involved in more than one row at Winfrid's age. But never in all his life had he heard of anyone breaking the rules: No yelling and no fighting in the stables. How could Winfrid of all lads commit an offence as serious as that? Overcoming his surprise he asked: "Any details?"

The stable master shrugged. "I was not present and only came when I heard the commotion and the lads calling for me. It seems Hrothgar said something to Winfrid the moment the boy stepped out of Firefoot's box after grooming the stallion this morning. Nobody heard what he said, but obviously it was enough to make Winfrid fly off the handle. He packed a punch and knocked out one of Hrothgar's eye teeth."

Éomer frowned. "Probably one of those Ceadda had loosened the week before."

Osulf nodded. "Probably. But nevertheless something that should not happen in the stables at all." The stable master grinned wryly. "Hrothgar was just lucky that Winfrid had closed the stall door properly, for Firefoot seemed to be determined to join in the melee."

Éomer suppressed a groan. That would have been the lad's death. How could Winfrid lose his temper like that? "And then Hrothgar gave him the shiner?"

Osulf nodded. "As far as the boys told me, yes. Threw the boy backwards against the forage chest and that knocked the wind out of him." The stable master thoughtfully stroked his beard. "They say Hrothgar pulled Winfrid close by his tunic and whispered something. And if the boy had been angry before, he simply went berserk then. Rammed his skull into Hrothgar's solar plexus, knocking the taller lad out cold and then straddled him and went for his throat."

Éomer was taken aback. "Did he use a knife?" _Perhaps the dagger he had given the boy?_

But the stable master shook his head. "No weapon was drawn. He strangled Hrothgar with both hands. The other lads tried to pull him off Hrothgar, cause the bloke was already blue in the face, but they couldn't manage to pry his hands open. That's when I arrived. It took Wigstan and me to remove his hands from Hrothgar's throat and then we had to hold him off because he tried to get back at the lad." Osulf shook his head doubtfully. "Hrothgar admitted having insulted Winfrid, and when I sentenced both boys to dig out the new latrine for the barracks and have finished before the frost sets in, he immediately accepted. But Winfrid..."

Éomer frowned. "Are you telling me Winfrid defied your orders?"

"No, Éomer King. He surely didn't. Yet it was much worse. He accepted my verdict, but swore he would knock in Hrothgar's head with a shovel or a pickaxe if he had to work next to him." Osulf looked troubled. "I don't know what got into him, Sire. I told him I would inform you and he took it as stubborn as a mule. I sent Hrothgar home, as the gap bled excessively and because I wanted to sort out things first and you were in council."

Éomer nodded. "I'll talk to Winfrid." He turned to leave the stables, when the stable master's concerned voice stopped him.

"I know the lads have been cross because of Lynet. And I know that Ceadda came here to beat some sense into Hrothgar's skull because of her. And I also know that Hrothgar believes that Winfrid tipped Ceadda off that he was pestering the woman. But for the dungeons of Mordor I don't know what that moron said to Winfrid to make the boy that spitting mad." He shrugged somehow helplessly. "Hrothgar is not bad or wicked or anything like that. A bit thick in the brains sometimes, but a good worker and reliable with the horses. And he's the oldest lad by two years. So there has also been some grudge on his side because Winfrid, who's so much younger and smaller, got along with that cantankerous steed of yours. But up to now Winfrid has not as much as raised his eyebrows at Hrothgar's big talk. I would never have believed him capable of an outburst like that."

Heaving a deep breath, Éomer nodded: "No Osulf, nor would I."

* * *

><p><strong>annotations:<strong>

**Éoredheap Segnung:** (Rohirric/Old English) "Blessing ofthe Warriors(Riders)"

**hléafdige: **(Rohirric/Old English) lady; literally "bread giver"


	11. Chapter 11

So here comes the next chapter and I hope you will enjoy reading it. I'm sorry if there are any reviews and/or PMs I have not answered to, but my account has been down for some time.

Or could it really be that for several days not a single soul showed any interest in any of my stories? I don't believe it, as it simply does not fit in with the number of lurkers, pardon, readers who pop in normally every day and paint a big happy grin on my face. ;-)

I hope you all enjoyed the last chapter and I would like to thank all those who took the time to review, even if that proved to be rather difficult due to the screwed up site.

And as always special thanks to **sep12 **for giving chase to my wayward commas, odd word order and superfluous spaces. ;-)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 11<strong>

Winfrid was already waiting outside the king's study to assist Éomer shedding the mail. His left eye was completely swollen shut by now and the bruise had spread further down his face, leaving his cheekbone black and swollen.

The boy undid the clasps in silence and Éomer did not talk either. Only when Winfrid turned to put the hauberk on the weapon-stand did Éomer address him. "You know the rules of the stable, don't you?"

Straightening up, the boy eyed the king, his face pale but nevertheless composed. "I do, Sire."

"Then what caused you to break them?" Éomer's voice did not give away anything about his mood.

Averting his eyes, the boy swallowed. "Hrothgar insulted... " The boy paused, visibly fumbling for words. "Hrothgar insulted my family."

"And that made you attack him in the aisle?" Éomer asked sternly. "Why didn't you ask him out into the yard?"

Winfrid blushed furiously. "I didn't think of it, Sire. But it wouldn't have made any difference. He would have simply laughed at me."

Éomer suppressed a sigh. He knew Winfrid was right. Hrothgar was not only more than one foot taller but also nearly twice as heavy as Winfrid. No way he would have taken the boy's challenge seriously. Nevertheless, Winfrid's conduct was unacceptable.

"Osulf told me he ordered the two of you to do some imposition, and you not only refused to work together with Hrothgar but also threatened to hurt him."

"I did not say I would hurt him." The boy's face was deadly pale now, the bruises standing out vividly. "What I said, and what I hereby confirm, is that if I will ever have to stand close to him with anything suitable in my hands, I will kill him."

Éomer's hand shot out, grabbing the boy's tunic across the chest. Winfrid never as much as blinked, his eyes hard as flint. Their gazes locked, Éomer regained his composure with difficulty and released his grip. "Winfrid, there is no room in Edoras for such bearing and you know that. You'll finish the work Osulf ordered you to do as a punishment for behaving unduly in the stables, and as you threaten Hrothgar's life, you will do it on your own. And once you have finished, you will leave Edoras. I will not put up with anybody in my household, be he man or boy, going against the King's Law."

The boy swallowed, and though his voice was unsteady when he answered, his gaze never wavered. "I'll do as you order, Éomer King. I respect the King's Laws, and yet there are laws that are older and more sacred and binding than yours, and obeying those, I assaulted Hrothgar. And whatever punishment you put on me, I will not step down."

Éomer clenched his teeth. _That incredible pride!_ "So be it. Leave now."

With a bob of his head, his face pallid and unreadable, the boy left the king's study.

Swirling round, Éomer grabbed the mug on his desk and smashed it against the far wall in a whirl of fury. _How could that boy lose control like that, not caring a horse's fart for the outcome? _Slumping down at his desk, he slammed his fist down on the desk top. _How could that boy..._ He stopped dead, realising his own behaviour. Perhaps he had better not be too critical about losing one's temper, but Winfrid's hatred and coldness troubled him deeply. _What in Morgoth's name had that dolt of a stable hand told the boy to make him crack like that?_

He had to find out what had turned a sympathetic and sensible lad into a column of burning ice. He regretted that Éothain had left with Erchirion for a trip into the vicinity of Edoras while the council lasted, as his friend and captain would certainly know more about it. Regarding the shards of the mug that were scattered all across the room, he scratched his jawline. If he was to find out what was going on below stairs, he had to ask Frithuswith. And he had better do it as soon as possible.

**ooo**

He was sure to find her in the kitchens this time of the day, but the kitchen staff informed him that she was in her "small room". Frithuswith occupied her own chamber close to the royal quarters but there was a small compartment near the kitchens she had turned into her sanctuary from the hubbub of the royal household during daytime, a tiny nook for privacy and yet close enough to the kitchens in case of any emergency.

The small room was gloomy, for there was no window save a very small one right under the low ceiling. It was highly visible that the room had been a storeroom once, with one small door leading out onto the terrace that surrounded Meduseld and another one that opened right into the kitchen. Now it held nothing but a narrow bed and a small table with a three-legged stool beside it and some cloth pegs on the otherwise unadorned whitewashed walls.

Frithuswith was sitting on the edge of the bed and had obviously been talking to Hrothgar, who sat drooping on the rug in front of the bed. Her face was grave, and when the lad rose to pay the king the due respect, Éomer noticed with surprise that he had been crying.

Apart from the split lip, one of his tear-smeared cheeks sported a weal as if a stick or a belt had been whipped across his face. The sturdy lad stood with hanging shoulders, pointedly avoiding the king's gaze.

Without a word Frithuswith motioned to Éomer to sit down on the stool, while Hrothgar slumped down again on the rug, and when she finally spoke, her voice sounded formal. "Éomer Cyning, Hrothgar here has informed me about what went on in the stables. He wants to make amends for it, and he has begged for my assistance, which I am willing to give."

Éomer looked at the lad thoughtfully. Hrothgar stared in an exerted way at his own hands. Large, callused and slightly dirty hands. A worker's hands, able hands that were twisting nervously now. Éomer remembered the stable master's remarks: "..._ not bad or wicked or anything like that. A bit thick in the brains sometimes, but a good worker and reliable with the _horses." The way he was sitting there, he certainly did not look wicked. And then Éomer realised. Those nervously fumbling fingers, the averted eyes, the sagged shoulders... Guilt! Guilt and fear. Hrothgar was feeling guilty. Éomer was intrigued. What had made the lad feel that devastated?

Frithuswith cleared her throat. "Hrothgar thinks he should go to the Bót Fenn, Éomer Cyning, and I agree with him."

It took Éomer some effort to keep his face expressionless. The Bót Fenn, the place to approach the gods to atone for an offence against the sacred laws. What had that lad done? And what had it to do with Winfrid's wrath, with the boy's furious attempt to strangle him? An idea took form in Éomer's mind, a suspicion, but it was so outrageous that the rest of his mind simply refused to follow. He turned to the lad. "So you will go to sacrifice. Why?"

Hrothgar raised his head, his lower lip trembling slightly. "I didn't know, Éomer King. I didn't know, I swear."

Frithuswith hushed him with a motion of her hand. "I'll tell you later, Éomer King." Turning to Hrothgar, she asked: "What do you intend to give as an offering?"

Blushing, the lad pulled out something he was wearing around his neck on a twine. He loosened it and handed it to Frithuswith. Gingerly she took the ornamented gold sequin between forefinger and thumb and held it up. Éomer immediately recognized it for what it was: a sequin the Haradrims' clothes had been adorned with. All of these as well as the golden beads the Southrons had worn in their braids had been distributed to the families of fallen warriors, both from Gondor and the Mark as some kind of wergild on Aragorn's behalf.

"It is the most precious thing I have," the lad mumbled.

The old woman shook her head. "Boy, you can't buy forgiveness with gold. It might be precious, but it is nothing that has any hold on your heart." Gravely she eyed the simple bracelet made of turned wooden beads around the lad's wrist. "What about that?"

Hrothgar swallowed. "But that... No, I can't. I... Father made it for me when I started working in the stables. Frithuswith, it's the only thing I ever got from him... I..." His voice petered out as his eyes met Frithuswith's stony gaze.

"I see. It's precious to your heart. But that also makes it a fitting offering. One that the gods will not scorn. The sequin I will keep and hand to your mother when we come back afterwards."

The lad closed his eyes for a short moment and then nodded his consent.

Éomer cleared his voice. "Hrothgar will need the assistance of a woman to draw his blood at the sacrifice."

Frithuswith nodded. "I'll go with him and do it."

Éomer had not expected anything else, yet he felt worried. Frithuswith was old, and he was not sure when she had last sat a horse. The ride to the sacred fens would take at least two days each way. "I'll send two men of the royal guard to accompany you."

The ghost of a smile flitted over Frithuswith's face. "I knew you would." Rising, she addressed Hrothgar. "Go and pack your things. We'll leave within the hour. Wait for me at the stables."

"I can't go home to fetch my things," the lad mumbled, looking pointedly at his fingers that were now fumbling with the hem of his tunic..

"Tell Osulf and ask him to send one of the boys over. And saddle some horse with an even gait for me." Frithuswith voice was calm, but she left no doubt she would not accept any objection.

"Hrothgar." The lad raised his head, looking at his king uncertainly. Face and voice stern, Éomer continued. "Let us hope that with Frithuswith's help you will be able to gain the gods' forgiveness at the Bót Fenn for whatever offence you committed. But there still is the fact of the fight in the stables which you provoked and participated in. I will not let that pass unpunished."

The lad blushed profoundly, but did not look away. It was obvious that he feared any punishment the king might put on him much less than the gods' wrath.

"For his threats and disobedience to Osulf Winfrid will have to do the digging of the latrines by himself. You, once you have done the sacrifice, will ride to Aldburg and report to Ceadda. The gelding of the yearlings will start in one week's time and you will work under Ceadda's command at Laguhám. At Yule I will decide if you should be allowed into Edoras again."

Bobbing his head to both king and housekeeper, Hrothgar left the room through the outer door. As soon as the door had shut behind him, Éomer turned to Frithuswith, his suppressed impatience getting the better of him. "Now, will you please tell me what all this is about and why you agreed to accompany him. And why can this dolt not go home and fetch his things himself?"

"I most certainly will tell you," the housekeeper answered and then moved over to the door that led into the kitchen with two energetic steps. Grabbing the doorknob, she jerked the door open, and two of the kitchen maids tumbled into the small room. Folding her arms with a grim smile, the old woman towered over the hapless girls, and Éomer found it very difficult not to smirk.

"Pack provisions for a five days' journey for four persons and bring everything over to the stables." Again this calm voice, used to command. Perhaps Erchirion was not at all wrong, calling her the dragon that guarded the hall. The girls scrambled to their feet, beet-red with embarrassment. "And don't forget to add a jar of pickled onions." Frithuswith's voice was totally emotionless, but the girls scurried out of the room as if chased by a demon.

Closing the door behind the girls, Frithuswith turned to face the king. "Where shall I start, Éomer?

Sober at once, Éomer asked: "Why can't he go home to fetch his things himself?"

"His mother threw him out. Osulf had sent him home, and when upon her request he blurted out what he had done and said, she drew a wooden spoon across his face and ordered him out, telling him he was a disgrace to the family and would draw the gods' wrath upon their house."

The ugly assumption he had growing stronger, Éomer asked: "What did he say to Winfrid, Frithuswith?"

Eyeing him solicitously, the old housekeeper shook her head. "Éomer, he didn't know. He was angry and perhaps jealous of Winfrid, and he surely wanted to hurt him, but..."

"What did he say, Frithuswith?" Éomer interrupted. The fact that she tried to explain and not just bluntly told him the reason added to his misgivings.

With a sigh and a shrug, Frithuswith went into detail. "He mocked Winfrid because of his stature. Asked him how it could be with his father having been a bear of a man, he turned out the runt he was."

"And that was when Winfrid punched him in the gob?" _The git truly deserved it._

Frithuswith nodded. "Yes, he simply must have surprised Hrothgar."

Éomer nodded. That made sense. No stable lad with half his brains would start a row in the stables, knowing the consequences. 'No row in the stables' was an unmovable law. Certainly Hrothgar had not expected the smaller boy to lash out.

"Anyway, Hrothgar struck back. And that is where it really got nasty." Frithuswith grimaced. "That big-headed idiot." Pacing the small room, she rubbed her knuckles. "He thought he had paid Winfrid back once and for all and meant to glory in his victory." The old housekeeper's face was grim when she finally stopped and looked at Éomer. "Winfrid had given him a clue of how much he was hurt, and so Hrothgar decided to turn the knife in the wound."

"What did he say?" Éomer whispered the words, his voice tight, knowing that his assumptions were correct. It was not unusual that people tried to insult each other, referring to their more or less dubious parentage, but no Rohirrim would dare to affront a man having fallen in battle. Even a criminal had the chance to clear his reputation through a brave death in battle, and the same applied to what the Eorlingas referred to as the women's battle. One did not say anything bad about a woman having died giving birth, even if it was the lowest slut.

Her face squinched up with disgust, Frithuswith went on. "He said that obviously Winfrid's mother had had one of her lap dogs shag her to give birth to something like him."

Éomer's jaw muscles bulged as he gritted his teeth, inhaling slowly through his nose to keep himself from bursting with fury. _That scum! No wonder Winfrid had wanted to kill him._

Éomer felt Frithuswith hand on his forearm. "He had not really meant it. He wanted to humiliate Winfrid, hurt him. He had not thought before what he was doing, had not realised that he insulted Winfrid's mother rather than the boy himself. And he did not know she had died, let alone giving birth to Winfrid."

Shoving her hand off, Éomer turned away. "Frithuswith, be that as it may be. There is no excuse for..."

Raising her hand, the old housekeeper interrupted him. "I'm not excusing anything, Éomer. And that is why I'll go with him to the Bót Fenn. He insulted a woman that died giving birth. He violated Erce's sacred principles, and I will make him go through all the steps of penitence and atonement." She looked at Éomer with a wry smile. "Not that I think the gods really care."

Éomer gasped. How could she say anything like this?

Frithuswith shot him a side glance and snorted. "Éomer, you saw the lad. He is devastated. As soon as he realised what he had done, he simply broke down. Can there be more penitence than that? Do you really think it makes any difference to the gods if he repents here or out in the fens? Do you really think they will be impressed by some small gift sprinkled with the offender's blood?"

Éomer was at a loss. "Then why do you drag him out there?"

Frithuswith shrugged. "Mostly to make him realise the consequences. And also to give him the feeling that there is a possibility to repent and try to correct a mistake."

_The dragon protecting the hall... _She knew what held the Mark together. But she better had consider her age. "Frithuswith, do you really have to leave today? It soon will get dark... "

She shook her head. "Who will take him in tonight, once the people learn what he did? Sure, he could sleep in the stables, but what would that be good for? No, as it is we'll be riding for just a few hours the first day and that will give my old bones time to adjust."

Grudgingly Éomer had to admit that she was right, but he did not like the idea of her being out in the wild. "Then wait at least until after dinner."

She simply laughed. "No, I will not lose any more time. And you can be assured that the girls will pack quite a satisfactory amount of food."

Éomer could not help a grin. "Including pickled onions."

Frithuswith guffawed. "Ah well, lad. Spending the nights alone deserves at least some compensation, and be it only the freedom not to worry about gassy food but indulge in farting to one's heart's and bum's delight."

He laughed. There was no one like the old housekeeper when it came to self-mockery. How many losses had she had to cope with in her long life? And yet, here she was: Frithuswith, the living centre of Meduseld, strong and determined, facing life with courage and a healthy appetite. What had she really been to his uncle during all these years besides the able housekeeper?

A strong forefinger prodded into his stomach. "Stop brooding. You know it won't help." She made for the door, but then stopped and turned around again. "It was quite a good idea to send Hrothgar to Ceadda. That herder certainly is a churl, but he is just. He'll give the lad a chance."

Éomer shrugged. "I rather sent him to make him really work his arse off and to keep him away from Lynet at the same time. I thought that might calm Ceadda a bit."

Grinning, Frithuswith shook her head. "If there is one man in the entire Riddermark Lynet won't lie with, it's Hrothgar. She still blames him for endangering her child."

"But he certainly didn't do it on purpose."

The housekeeper shrugged. "Don't forget that Lynet's brains work quite simple, to say the least. He told her to put the child down, as far as I understand to better get his greedy paws at her tits, and then the horses rushed in. So for her it's his fault." She chuckled. "Lynet even repeated Ceadda's advice word by word to him, when he was stupid enough to try to talk her into it."

"Ceadda's advice?" Éomer raises his eyebrows enquiringly.

"To go and fuck a knothole in the barn walls. She even added that she didn't care if it hurt. She doesn't understand irony or anything like that, Éomer. She has a child's mind and understanding. She takes things literally."

Éomer nodded. "That's what Ceadda told me, too."

"You talked to Ceadda?" Now it was Frithuswith's turn to be surprised.

"Yes, I found him sleeping in the stables at Aldburg early in the morning after his ride to Edoras. He's quite concerned about Lynet and her child."

The housekeeper sighed. "I know. He was totally exhausted but spent the whole day watching her work in the kitchen and talking to her in between. I finally forced him to lay down for at least some hours before riding back to Aldburg."

"He doesn't know what to do about Lynet and that bothers him."

Frithuswith cut him short with an angry snort. "Éomer, if there ever was a man who had the knack to treat her right, it's him."

Eyeing her doubtfully, Éomer scratched his jaw. "But she would never be a partner."

Frithuswith just shrugged. "No, she certainly would not. But Ceadda is not one too much for talking himself. And her body doesn't lack anything, as he no doubt has noticed."

Remembering the herders longing expression, Éomer confirmed that. "He has. And he admitted he punched Hrothgar because the lad had seen through him and tried to rub it in."

Frithuswith shook her head. "Éomer, don't get me wrong. This is not just about shagging. Ceadda does care, I don't doubt that. But he certainly is a man and he's not blind."

"And how did Lynet react?" He eyed the old housekeeper doubtfully. "He bullied her quite a bit at Hengest Giefu."

"Lynet?" Frithuswith laughed. "Don't mention Ceadda within her earshot, if you mind having your ears bleed. Every second word she utters is 'Ceadda', since he turned up and lambasted Hrothgar."

"Do you think she loves him?"

"I'm not sure if she understands what that means, but she adores him. He came all the way from Aldburg to put that pestering lad in his place and spent a handful of hours just to talk with her." Thoughtfully Frithuswith brushed an errant strand behind her ear. "Éomer, he gave her more attention in one day than that poor wench got from a single person in her entire life. I don't know what he will do in the end, but if he ever should decide to take her in, she would be more than eager to please him and cling to him like an abandoned pup. Unfortunately with not much more brains than one either."

Éomer shook his head. "It would not work, Frithuswith. How will that be in twenty years from now? He's in his forties and Lynet is not yet twenty. He'll be an old man when she'll be in the middle of her life."

With an angry snort she raised her hand, fending off his argument. "In twenty years from now! Who knows what will be in twenty years from now? Life is now, Éomer, and not in twenty years. And it calls us to grab it with both hands. And what is wrong with him being older? Not every woman welcomes a young stallion, Éomund's Son. True, they are nice to look at, but an older man will be more patient and last longer. And why should that sod be afraid of having a younger wife with the reputation he has with the women all over the Eastemnet?

Éomer was puzzled. Ceadda himself had made clear that he saw said reputation rather as scorn than as admiration. "He mentioned he was thought after because there was no danger that he would leave the accidental bun in the oven."

The old woman bristled. "Fool! Ah well, better a humble man than a braggart who flaunts his skill and ability at any given opportunity." She grimaced wryly. "If that bloke ever heard what the women say about him he would bust with male pride and vanity."

"Would he?" Éomer was not sure about that at all.

Frithuswith rolled her eyes. "Éomer, have you ever seen that man calming a skittish horse? Have you ever heard him whisper to an exhausted mare in labour? Ah, lad, women know how to read a man's character and hidden abilities. He cares for the living and knows how to make a woman feel desirable." Her face split into a broad grin, and she added with a chuckle: "And he's quite famous for the marvels he does with his tongue once he doesn't use it for talking."

Looking into his face, she doubled over with laughter. "Why, Éomer, you look quite shocked."

"Oh well, I had not known that women were discussing their swains' performances like that," he explained lamely, only to evoke another chuckle.

"Don't you worry. There are those who talk and those who wouldn't. Same as with the men. But enough of that. I have to pack. And, Éomer..." Opening the door, she winked at him with a broad grin. "Send me some older men of your guard, will you?"

**ooo**

Crossing the hall together, they spotted Winfrid aiding the maids with laying the king's table. As they would dine in the hall tonight with the entire household present, it was his task to serve the king and Erchirion, the king's guest of honour.

Éomer stopped. The boy still looked pale and taut. He had better talk to him. He made to approach the boy, who had not seen them yet, but Frithuswith touched his elbow lightly. "Not here, Éomer," she said in a hushed voice. "Go ahead and I'll send him to your rooms."

The floor of his study was still strewn with the shards of the smashed mug. Kicking the biggest pieces out of his way, Éomer went to the window and opened it. The peaks of the White Mountains were covered in snow as always, but soon the white patches would spread lower down day by day till they reached the plains, covering everything in a glittering blanket. Then up at the Dimholt it would be so thick that a passage would be impossible. He wondered how far the courier to Dol Amroth might have got this day.

A knock at the door announced Winfrid, and when he entered, Éomer was shocked at the boy's facial expression. Where there had been cold pride and stubborn determination just a short time ago, there was only badly hidden grief now and the sullen attempt to cope with it.

"Has Frithuswith told you about Hrothgar's confession and remorse?" Éomer's voice sounded hoarse in his own ears. The boy did not look at him, but merely nodded.

Éomer cleared his voice. "Winfrid, as long as there is no evidence that the gods reject his sacrifice, you have no right to attack him. He is under the judgement of the gods now. You understand me?" Again a nod. Éomer sighed inwardly, but he was determined to go through with this.

"Winfrid, I will not go back on the punishment for your unruly behaviour in the stables. You will have to do the digging. But I well understand your disobedience." He paused. The boy was now looking at the tips of his boots with hanging shoulders. Walking over to him, Éomer crouched down in front of him and lifted the boy's chin with two fingers. "Winfrid." Their gaze locked. "Winfrid, I know it is wrong, but I must confess that if I had been in your place I would have killed him."

What the king had meant as encouragement turned out quite unforeseen. The boy's eyes started to fill with tears. Snuffling he tried to stop their brimming over, and when he felt he was fighting a losing battle, he finally gave in to the sobs, blurting out with trembling lips: "Yes, you certainly would. And you would have succeeded. Whereas I... " The sobs grew more violent, shaking his entire body. "I will never be a Rider. I'm useless."

With a sudden impulse, Éomer pulled him close, gathering the small body protectively in his strong arms. With a wailing sob the boy buried his face into the folds of his king's tunic, like some tiny animal seeking warmth and shelter from the cruelty and cold around.

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><p><strong>annotations:<strong>

**bót: **(Rohirric/Old English) offering/sacrifice

**fenn: **(Rohirric/Old English) fen/ mire


	12. Chapter 12

So here comes the next chapter for all those who were disappointed that there was so little romance in the last one. But be warned: It's not all roses and sunshine in the Mark, roses and horse droppings being more likely, and not a bad combination at all (From the gardener's POV! ;-)).

Thanks to all of you for reading, subscribing and reviewing, and a deep curtsey to **sep12** for her help with the language.

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><p><strong>Chapter 12<strong>

The next day saw the king of the Mark at the blacksmith's outside of Edoras soon after noon. The low building squatted beside the road that led up to the main gate, well away from the thatched wooden houses of the town to reduce the danger of a fire. Firefoot's irons needed renewal, and knowing the stallion's unpredictable temper, Cenric, the blacksmith, forthrightly refused to deal with him alone, and Éomer did not blame him for it.

As long as he himself was present, the destrier stood as patiently as any carthorse, lifting his large hooves at command and allowing the blacksmith's assistant to remove the irons and trim and rasp the hooves. Even the stench of the singeing horn did not cause him to more than wrinkle his nose and snort. But Éomer knew better than to be taken in by the meek and reasonable behaviour of the great grey. As soon as he tried to leave, the cantankerous beast would turn into a demon in the shape of a horse, kicking and biting like one possessed.

Bent over Firefoot's foreleg, he only noticed the errand rider when the horse stopped beside the smithy and the dismounting courier greeted him. Straightening up, he recognized Hereward, a man well in his fifties, who had been in Théodred's Éored, but due to an injury that had left him with a stiff elbow had had to quit the fighting forces.

"I'm afraid the road to Dol Amroth is blocked, Éomer King," Hereward explained, while opening his saddlebag. "A wet landslide came down in the Morthond valley and made any passage impossible."

Éomer swallowed and bent again over the hoof to get the frustration that assaulted him under control. He knew he would not send the letter the long way via Minas Tirith, not that letter, written in the state of tipsiness that had made him careless about any consequences. Maybe it was a sign that the courier had found him in front of the blacksmith's and he had better throw his stammerings into the blast of the furnace. Without looking up from Firefoot's hoof, he held out his hand to receive the scroll back he had set on its way the day before.

"Here you are, Sire." Something flat and smooth was shoved into his outstretched hand. Jerking his head up in surprise, Éomer stared at the letter: beige paper, a bold and yet clear hand... He did not need to turn the letter to look at the signet.

"But you said the road was blocked."

The rider nodded. "Yes, it is. Right in the gorge before the tunnel on the Gondorean side. They had heavy rainfalls for the entire last week. And that seems to have loosened the rubble right above the ravine. I tethered my horse below the tunnel entrance and climbed across the boulders, and there I found a group of Gondoreans who were examining the damage."

Smiling, the rider nodded his thanks to the smith's old mother, who had come up and handed him a wooden mug, filled with buttermilk. Emptying the mug in one hefty draught, he handed it back and wiped his moustache. "Well, they say it's no use to remove the debris before the end of winter, as more might slide down with the lasting rain and beginning frost. But they have some kind of shelter or cabin at the mouth of the gorge where they could station a courier, at least until the snow gets too heavy. And we could position a guard at the entrance of the tunnel. A horn-signal can be heard perfectly well through the entire length of the gorge. So there is a possibility for the exchange of missives and lighter loads for perhaps some more weeks." The rider grinned at his king who stood, the letter in hand. "We were discussing those things, when Cena came up on his way back from Dol Amroth, and all we had to do was swap our messages."

"Are there any other letters?" Éomer tried his best to make his voice sound businesslike.

The courier answered in the affirmative. "There is one for you from Prince Elphir and another one addressed to Lord Eáldread, Sire."

Éomer nodded. Probably some more details concerning the wedding contract. He would have a look at them later. "Tell them to give you a proper meal in the kitchens and have a rest."

Hereward grinned. "I certainly will, Éomer King. Will you send me back to the Dimholt tonight or can I sleep till dawn tomorrow morning?"

Slightly irked by the teasing, Éomer raised his eyebrows. "Are you up to ride tonight, Hereward?"

The rider's grin deepened. "I'm up to ride at any time, Sire. Just give me and my horse the chance of a decent meal, and off we go."

Now Éomer couldn't help a grin himself. "Nay, Hereward, I'm afraid you are faster at eating than I am at writing. Tomorrow morning will be early enough."

The courier shrugged. "I can go at any time, as soon as the letter is written. The road up to Harrowdale is fine, and there will be no clouds tonight. I could make the entire distance to the Dimholt this night, riding at a sensible pace and be at the landslide at dawn tomorrow."

"We'll see about that." With a nod, Éomer dismissed the rider and turned back towards Firefoot, the letter still in hand.

"He was quite eager to go back immediately, wasn't he?" The mirth in the blacksmith's voice was clearly audible.

"Pha," his old mother chimed in," I bet you a mug of ale he has a wager going."

"A wager?" Éomer frowned. The Eorlingas' fancy for bets of all kind was legendary, but he did not much like to be the subject of it.

The old woman laughed, showing her toothless gums. "Éomer Cyning, only the gods know how many bets are placed on you and your princess, and there will be more as the wedding approaches. I myself have one up concerning the colour of the bride's dress."

Pulling a face, he raised his hands in mock defence. "Enough! You had better not tell me what the other bets are on." The laughter that raised in the small group around him was loud and good-natured. Weddings were a traditional target of ribaldry and practical jokes and he only hoped that him being king would cause some restraint in the bluntness.

Tilting her head and eyeing him like an hungry thrush would eye a snail, she asked. "Well, Éomer Cyning, won't you read that letter now? You sent a man for it before day and dawn, so one should think it is important, isn't it?"

"You are perfectly right ealder modor," he took her suggestions in his stride, "but I'm afraid that horse of mine would start being jealous. We had better shoe him quickly."

He was about to shove the letter into his tunic with some regret, when he heard Winfrid's voice at his side, lowered to a whisper not to be heard by the others. "Sire, if you want to read the letter, I could try and calm Firefoot during the shoeing."

Swiftly Éomer took in the situation. The boy thought himself up to it, otherwise he would not suggest it. Should he succeed, it would doubtless raise his reputation with everybody in Edoras, while a failure would mean nothing worse would happen to him than had already happened to almost any other man in the king's service. He had nothing to lose.

Grinning, he nudged Winfrid's shoulder. "Go ahead. I'll be over there in case things get out of hand." He jerked his head towards the low drystone wall that surrounded the farrier's compound.

The boy looked up, his smile a bit lopsided due to the bruises, and then approached the stallion, talking to him in a low cooing voice. As if he never had behaved differently, Firefoot lifted his left forefoot again, stoically allowing the blacksmith's assistant to continue his work. Finding it difficult to suppress a grin, Éomer turned his back to the gaping crowd and went to sit on the wall.

He waited for a while, but the grey stayed cooperative. Everybody's attention was on the boy and the stallion now, and in the expectant silence Éomer suddenly heard the farrier's mother: "I bet you a mug of ale on the boy."

Smiling, he shook his head. Some things never changed in the Mark. Letting the crowd be, he looked at the letter. His dirty thumb had left a blotch on the beige paper. This was an answer to the letter he had written before leaving for Aldburg, ten days ago. His mind racing, he tried to remember what exactly he had written and what she might answer to. He most vividly remembered his feelings while writing it, remembered her letter he had answered to up to the single words, but he found that his own words had somehow been erased from his brain.

He shrugged. It could not be helped, and it certainly was more important to have her words to relish than to remember his own. Carefully he broke the seal and started to read.

_Dear Éomer,_

_I am holding your letter in my hands, this letter I have been waiting for so much, and I know I should be happy. How much love and care is there in every line! I read it and imagine you writing, sitting at your desk in the light of a single candle. And yet, when I look out over the bay, the heavy clouds drifting in, trailing dark grey curtains of rain behind, I feel only sadness that I cannot float with them across the Eraid Nimrais with the western winds._

He clenched his teeth, his bad conscience causing his neck to crawl with the heat of an upcoming blush. He should not have hesitated for days until finally answering her. The thought of her, feeling cold and lonely in joyless surroundings called forth his guilt and protectiveness, and yet he had to admit, somewhere in a corner of his mind sat a little demon, his male pride, puffing out its chest at the thought that she pined for him.

With a frown he looked up at the massive forms of the mountains. There had been some heavy showers during the last week on the Mark's side, and certainly the nights were already chilly, but still there was more sun than rain; just those last days of autumn, when the gold of the sun was already dim, but nevertheless its sight warmed the hearts of Men. Obviously most of the clouds did not make it over the high ridges.

He wished he could blame her sadness simply on the rain. There had been one short moment he had glimpsed sadness on Lothíriel's face, the moment when that scum Mardil had arrived in the bay of Dol Cobas, and remembering her face, all vanity vanished. He wanted her to smile, not to weep for him. Returning his gaze to the letter, he continued reading.

_It is a strange kind of sadness though, as it holds nothing of the fury I used to develop when there was anything that caused me hurt or grief in the past. Back then, there was always someone I could put the blame on and that gave me the strength to fight and keep going. Now there is nothing but to wait and though I know that with every day I leave behind I am one day closer to you there are moments when I cannot help being melancholic._

_It has been raining for nearly one week now and slowly it seems that there is no colour in the world but grey. I wish that I could see your face just for a moment. Your smile, the twinkle in your eyes, those blue eyes that make up my private little piece of blue sky in all this drabness._

His throat was suddenly very dry. _He had to go to Dol Amroth!_ The moment he thought it, he knew it was nonsense, but his excitement at her words almost ousted any sense of reality. Eagerly he read on.

_You may call me stupid as there surely is no reason to complain with a letter like the one you wrote. And yet, reading your letter makes me ache so terribly as I miss you so much._

At that point his brain simply refused any further pondering, there was nothing more than the wish for more. More of these incredibly sweet confessions, more of her longing and passion poured into words. Words that made him giddy with desire and hard with lust.

_Éomer, if it were true that we could embrace in our dreams, I wish I could sleep till the first days of spring, sheltered in your arms. Your letter evokes so many images in my mind that it makes me feel dizzy. To wake up at your side – how many other things does that include! I know that there will be a day when we wake up in each other's arms, but I wish it was today!_

He held his breath. _Béma, she was bold!_ He clenched his teeth not to whoop out his possessive joy. His heart beating in his throat, he continued reading.

_I know I have to be rational. Certainly the time is not wasted, as it gives me an opportunity to learn the language so I will be able to communicate at least the more simple things of daily life and with the help of Beorhtraed the scribe I am slowly developing some solid understanding of the Mark's history and traditions. But it irks me that so much is done to enable me to be the queen of Rohan and so little thought is given to the fact that I will be your wife. Mind you, I want to be a good queen to your people, and I work and study to achieve that aim as much as I can, but I wish I had some Rohirric woman at my side to talk to about what a Rohirric husband would expect of his wife._

He could not but grin. The warrior prepared herself for battle. Oh, he would find no problems with showing her what a very specific Rohirric husband expected of his wife. _Béma, that woman was simply incredible! _And to imagine her asking poor Beorhtraed in such a forthright way! The bloke would sink into the ground due to embarrassment. But she certainly knew better than that. His assumptions were affirmed with the next lines.

_There is no way I could ask Beorhtraed about anything like that. First of all he would not know because he is not married, and secondly he would probably die from embarrassment. I still cannot but shake my head thinking of his behaviour when I asked him about the carvings._

Grinning like an idiot, he stretched. Those carvings! What would he give to start putting them into practice right now.

_Mother suggested I should talk to your sister when we meet her in Minas Tirith, but I am not sure. From what Father, who admires her exceedingly, told me, she is quite stern and proud, and I do not know how she would react if I approached her with "girl talk". But I will see what she is like myself when I see her and make up my mind then._

The image of Lothíriel discussing him with his sister nearly made him groan. No doubt they would get along perfectly well, and Éowyn certainly was not one to mince her words. _Béma, he would never be able to live down all those things about him that sister of his would tell her with evil delight!_ Yet he had to admit that it was no bad idea, as there certainly were things no woman would like to discuss with a man, if any man was able to discuss them anyway.

_Éomer, you say you are selfish – but what do you make of me then? Me, who thinks that I should have risked the scandal, the possible friction between our countries just for the sake of being with you as soon as possible? Just imagine that if you had not stopped we probably would already be married!_

He slowly breathed in through his nose, desperately trying to get his exploding fantasies under control. _She certainly knew to hit the mark!_ How many times he himself had envisioned what it would have been like, how they would have made love to each other, right there in the fluttering shade of the old plane tree. And yet he knew that he had done the only reasonable thing. It would have been a scandal beyond imagination and sorting things out probably would have caused more problems than the entire trade negotiations, not to mention the damage of reputation it would have brought about.

_I know I am totally unreasonable. It would not only be the scandal, the gossip, the rumours. There might have been quite a number of lords who felt offended by such "barbaric" behaviour, not to say anything about my father's disappointment. And they certainly would have blamed it on you. I mean, they probably would have despised me for being seducible, but all, commoners and lords alike, would have taken it for certain that it had been you who had started the dance. Little do they know!_

_But worst of all, would not your own people have doubted my integrity? What if we had not stopped and there had come a child out of our passion? What if that child had my dark looks? It often happens that the darker colours of one parent prevail, be it in animals or in humans. Would there not have been rumours amongst your people, your nobles at least, who perhaps are miffed because they would have liked one of their own daughters in my place at your side?_

He gritted his teeth at the obvious reason her sentences displayed. She was right, no one would have imagined her to have initiated the events in Imrahil's private garden. And he would have taken any blame on himself, as she certainly had not known how unrulable the emotions were she had stirred up. But to imagine the doubts his people might have shown in case she would have given birth to a dark-haired child... The thought sobered him up considerably.

_I try so hard to reason to make the waiting more bearable, but sometimes my own brain refuses to listen to my arguments. Sídhríl mocks me, and assures me that I will feel much less jumpy and unbalanced after the wedding night, but that is not really much of a help at the moment. Perhaps I should just try and laugh at my own misery. _

_Your idea of coming to Dol Amroth as your own errand rider made me giggle, though I have to admit it is a most tempting notion. I told Sídhríl about it, and she just snorted and told me you had better not come right now, for in the condition I am in at the moment you just needed to sneeze at me to impregnate me. The trouble is that most probably she is right. I would never have believed that I ever could feel the way I feel at the moment, but perhaps I should just put the blame on you and vent my wrath on you, because you are the reason for all my agitation._

He cursed himself, but he could not help feeling flattered, and what was worse, thrilled. He imagined himself, dismounting in the yard of the Dol Amroth castle, sweeping her up in his arms as she came running down the perron. His pirate princess, warrior's daughter, a maid like tempered steel, melting in his embrace. In vain he tried to grab for the last fleeting trails of guilty conscience; the images she evoked simply swept them away. Swallowing he took in the next lines.

_The image of you sitting and carving rocking horses for our future children nearly made me cry, as it is so sweet and peaceful a scene. The king of the Riddermark carving toys for his beloved ones. What other picture could grasp the very essence of peace and family life? Do you really know how to carve? My brothers and I used to carve drift wood on the beach, making little animals and monsters out of the bleached wood. Father and Erchirion have told me so much about the carvings at Meduseld, and I am looking forward to seeing them with my own eyes._

The grin stole back into his face. He certainly knew how to carve, and it would take him only a few more hours to finish the box for her. And had not he himself thought of peace when he had started to carve it for her? How he longed to have her at his side, see her smile...

_Unfortunately peace might not be granted to us for very long, as there seems to be trouble brewing in Harondor due to some rivalry of two of the ruling families. Elphir fears that the enmities might even lead to some kind of civil war and that would spoil all of King Elessar's achievements so far. He sends an official missive with the same courier to Rohan but begged me to inform you, that more detailed information will be sent to you personally. Whether by him or directly by the king depends on the development of affairs and the weather._

He had to read the paragraph twice to understand it completely, feeling like having been hit over the head with a sandbag. For a moment he closed his eyes, the muscles of his jaw bulging. Why for Morgoth's dungeons could these Southerners not keep some peace amongst themselves? At least for some more years. But there was no use in being rash. He would read Elphir's letter as soon as he went back to Meduseld, discuss its contents with Eáldread, and then he would have to wait for further information anyway. His face grim, he made to read the next lines.

_Your courier informed me that the narrow road beside the Morthond is in a quite precarious condition, as it is partly washed out by the freshet caused by the lasting rain. I suppose it might be best to construct a new route for the road on the other side of the river where the ground is more solid and add a bridge in the upper course._

_It is strange how much a bit of writing and active thinking improves my mood. I feel much better now than at the beginning of my letter. Not that I miss you less, but it helps to be doing something that might be useful._

He shook his head, and yet he felt some kind of admiration for her strong and active mind and bearing. No doubt she would be the queen the Mark needed especially if the threats of war should become reality.

_As I am writing this, the last delivery of timber must have reached Edoras and I wonder how Frithuswith received my supplies for the kitchens of Meduseld. I am a bit uneasy, but I try to convince myself that you have probably already held your first meal with my gifts. _

_How much I enjoyed sharing food with you. Perhaps I am childish, but now when I think back to our meal on Tol Cobas... Was it perhaps that you also enjoyed some other things besides the food? I sometimes glanced at you out of the corners of my eyes, and... Oh well, I am not sure, perhaps it is just that I wanted you to be interested._

He gaped. She obviously had already been interested in him on their sailing-trip to the island. But then: had Amrothos not told him that the headscarf she had given to him had been something very special to her? Thoughtfully he sucked at his teeth. Had she intended all the time to rope him in and he had simply followed her lead while he had thought to be acting out of his own will? Realising he felt miffed, he smirked at himself. There his male pride went down the river! So what? Did not the mare call the stallion out into the plains? Who was he to change the ways of the ancient dance? She had not behaved like those simpering ladies of the court, had treated him with open trust, so what had he to complain about? She had wanted him. Was that not rather a reason to be proud? There was but one paragraph left, a few more lines in her distinct hand.

_I am afraid that the way through the Dunharrow passage might be soon closed due to the weather conditions. That will mean a letter will take nearly a fortnight from Dol Amroth to Edoras. But fortunately in two months time at the latest I will be in Minas Tirith, and then I will try to find out how fast King Elessar's couriers really are!_

_In my fantasy I embrace you and beg you to let me share your dreams._

_Yours Lothíriel_

_PS: I am not sure if I should let you share mine, as you would not get too much sleep. L._

_PPS: I delivered your blanket to Melwen the other day. Her parents were most grateful for the gift and the girl immediately snuggled into it, asking me if Melian had such a nice blanket, too. I told her that she was sleeping in your bed, whereupon the girl was most content and bid me tell you to give a big kiss to Melian. I just hope now that there is no one named Melian in Edoras except that rag doll. L._

Éomer's face split into a grin. _What an incredible cheek! __Béma, how he loved her clever teasing and banter!_ Still grinning, he remembered their ride back from the archers' training grounds. Their horses nearly had collided because both of them had had the same naughty idea at the same moment. _Ah, she truly was no prude, his pirate queen!_

Looking up, he noticed the smith's mother standing close, eyeing him with a thoughtful expression on her wrinkled face. Though far into her eighties and slightly stiff and bent by age, her appearance still was impressive, her large frame leaving no doubt where Cenric had inherited his figure from.

Seeing Éomer gaze at her, she asked him: "Have you finished reading, Éomer Cyning?"

He could not help a wry grin. "Why? Have you put a bet on me?"

The old woman chuckled. "No, not on you. But that squire of yours is just winning me six pints of good ale. He really is a dab hand with that warg of a destrier."

"Six pints of ale?" Éomer laughed. "Ealder modor, isn't that a bit too much for you?"

She snorted. "It won't be too much for Cenric and his man. But I'm willing to take a copper penny instead of a pint." Eyeing the letter in his hands curiously, she cleared her throat. "Those signs, Éomer Cyning, are they like runes?"

Surprised by her enquiry, Éomer nodded. "Yes, in some way at least. Like with the runes each sign represents a sound." Folding the paper, he pointed at the single letters at its front. "Look, this is my name and title in the common tongue: Éomer, King of Rohan. But the signs don't hold any magic like the runes do. You just use them to tell the receiver something."

The old woman shook her head. "Why not send someone to deliver your missive by word of mouth? That had been good enough for many a man's lifetime in the Mark."

The old pride of the Mark. Éomer knew he had to tread carefully. "Well, if it is only a missive, you could certainly have a messenger deliver it by word of mouth. But with these letters you can tell as well personal things to someone who is far away." Seeing her frown, he tried to explain. "I could write about what I'm doing at the moment, like:' I'm sitting on a low wall in front of the smithy, reading your letter. The weather is fine and I'm waiting for the farrier to finish shoeing my charger.' Then the receiver would know exactly what is going on."

The smith's mother nodded, though she seemed not really convinced. No wonder with that idiotic example, he admitted to himself. "But I could also write down my thoughts, tell what I'm thinking while I'm sitting here."

The old woman grinned. "Like: 'The farrier's old mother is a nosy crone.'"

Éomer laughed. "Yes, like that. But I could as well communicate my feelings. And you will surely understand that I would not wish to send someone to tell my betrothed about my feelings by words of mouth."

"Your feelings, eh?" The farrier's mother tilted her head. "Like: 'I wish you were here and I could cuddle you'?"

Trying in vain to hide his mirth, he nodded. "Yes, like that."

Squinting one eye, she enquired, pointing at the letter in his hands: "And your betrothed can answer and write you what she thinks about what you write her, isn't it?"

When he nodded again, she waggled her head. "So it's like wooing, isn't it?"

His hand ran tenderly over the letter. "Yes, ealder modor. That's exactly what it is."

Her wrinkled face split in a big grin. "Ah, Éomer Cyning, that surely bodes well for the Mark! I have been wondering all this time what kind of queen it would be you were bringing over from Gondor, after having known her for so short a time. I mean, there was no way to woo her properly, was there?" She shook her head. "The men say it's politics, but Béma's horse, politics make no healthy offspring, you see?"

Éomer sighed inwardly. That was what the people of the Mark expected, be they nobles or commoners: The continuation of Eorl's House. And they would keep on pestering till an heir to the throne was born. Not that he minded putting as much effort as possible into that royal duty, but it annoyed him nevertheless.

"Hands off, sod! That's cheating!" The blacksmith's angry voice drew his attention towards the group around Firefoot. Seeing himself losing his bet, one of the men was prodding the stallion to raise his ire.

With astonishing speed the old woman shuffled over to the men, cursing vividly under her breath. The offender stepped back, but after a short while, Éomer noticed him closing in again, now aiming to distract Winfrid. He finally got on the boy's nerves, and when he bent down to the boy's ear to tell him something, Winfrid's head shot up with an angry exclamation.

Before anyone else could react, Firefoot's strong neck stretched and large, yellow teeth clicked in a menacing way, less than one inch in front of the man's nose. The man jumped back, nearly losing his footing, and the others roared with laughter.

Watching Winfrid, who was calming the stallion, whispering soothing words, Éomer felt a rush of admiration. Despite his display of anger, the stallion had not changed his position, his right forefoot that the blacksmith's assistant had been working at still safe in Winfrid's hands. That boy truly had touched his charger's soul.

The shoeing continued now without further incidents, but Éomer could not help but notice that there was some murmuring amongst the men and more than once their glances went over to where he was sitting on the wall. In the end the farrier's mother collected her winnings, her face all wrinkled delight.

"Here boy." Approaching Winfrid, she shoved three small coins into his hand. Surprised the boy tried to give the money back, but the old woman shook her head. "No, boy. It's your half of the winnings, and you have earned it. That was really a sight to behold."

Smiling, her son appeared at her side, laying his enormous blackened hand on Winfrid's shoulder. "She's right, boy. And it's bloody nice to see the skill and ability of Eorl still prominent in his people."

Blushing, Winfrid pocketed the money, and side by side squire and king trotted up the road to the gates. Once they were out of earshot of the group before the smithy, Éomer turned to the boy with a grin. "Well, what were they blathering about? I bet you, it was a new bet."

Winfrid flashed him a big grin. "Certainly, Sire. What else if the farrier's mother is involved? She'll even bet on next morning's sunrise."

Éomer laughed. "So, what is it? Do I want to know the wager?"

When he answered, the boy was audibly trying to keep the snigger out of his voice. "It's 2 against 4 that you will send a courier back to Dol Amroth as soon as tonight."

* * *

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**ealder modor: **(Rohirric/Old English) grandmother; here used as a polite form of address


	13. Chapter 13

Thanks to all of you for your interest in this story. I'm posting this chapter "not betaed", because **sep12**, who has been helping me so much with the language in the other chapters, got wrapped up in the red tape of her tax computation and therefore has more important things to deal with than one love-sick horselord. ;-). I will edit this later, but as I promised to update every fortnight the latest and already got some worried enquiries after my health: Here comes chapter 13, and please, try to overlook the errant commas and odd (mis)use of grammar. ;-)

**Chapter 13**

Passing through the hall towards his private quarters, Éomer noticed the group of men sitting at one of the tables. It consisted mostly of members of the royal guard, including Éothain, who were relishing a mug of good ale after a demanding training session, but in their middle Hereward the courier had just finished a large bowl of food and was now emptying his mug. Seeing the king, he wiped his moustache. "Well, that was certainly a treat. I'll go and have a kip now. Give me three hours and I'll be as good as new."

Ignoring his men, who tried their best to keep their faces expressionless, Éomer addressed Éothain. "Inform Lord Eáldread that I'm expecting him in my study and join us."

The official scroll with Elphir's letter on his desk was the first thing he noticed when entering his study. Breaking the seal, he went over to the window and started reading. The prince was informing him about the general state of affairs concerning the political development in the South, and though the letter was written in Elphir's own hand, it largely contained nothing but detailed information, necessary facts given to an allied neighbour in a businesslike manner. Only in the occasional comments Éomer recognised Elphir's typical way of conduct: polite, guarded and exceedingly intelligent with just a tiny dash of wry humour.

As far as he understood from the given details, the preparations and general mobilisation seemed to be advancing at a steady pace, with three new warships being built: two in the shipyards of Dol Amroth and one at Edhellond, where Mardil's elder sister, a most competent and generally esteemed lady, had been appointed as an interim ruler by King Elessar. Pelargir was busy checking up the last of the corsairs' ships that had been captured during the war, and all in all there was a solid chance that Gondor's navy would be ready for a major onslaught as soon as the winter storms abated.

What he could not make heads nor tails of were the added numbers concerning the manning of the vessels, the sail area and the speed of the ships, and he regretted that Erchirion had not been in the hall, as he certainly would be able not only to understand the relevance of the information but also to explain everything.

The next part of the letter was easier to understand though, as it dealt with the internal problems of Harondor. Together with the necessary facts and descriptions it contained a simple sketch, some kind of map, pointing out the dimensions of the single fiefs and highlighting the areas where problems were to be expected.

Secret contracts had been made with the different lords of the coastal areas of Harondor, but with the conflicts flaming up in the hinterland, some of the newly won allies might be distracted or even forced to concentrate their forces on the inland borders of their fiefs instead of being able to support the king's navy against Umbar.

Éomer groaned. Technically, Harondor belonged to Gondor, but with her waning power over the centuries the local lords had become more and more independent, caring little for the ancient claims of the realm, as said realm had no longer had the means to protect them against the armies of Umbar and the Dark Lord.

Considering his own difficulties to balance the sensibilities of the Mark's lords, he did not envy Aragorn at all. True, his friend had men like Imrahil and Faramir at his side, able and reliable counsellors that were well-respected throughout Gondor, but who knew really about the hidden net of ancient grudges and dependencies? He sighed. Council work, the attempt to convince proud and self-assured men to accept his opinion and decisions; that certainly was the most tiresome and demanding aspect of being king, so different from the situation in battle he was used to, where his soldiers accepted his command and his example without hesitation.

An energetic rap at the door announced Éothain, and entering, he eyed the letter in Éomer's hands with a wry grin. "I suppose that one's not as nice a missive as the other one you received today."

Éomer snorted. "Is there anything else your men are blathering about?" He rolled up the scroll and put it back on the desk.

Éothain laughed, placing the mugs and the quite impressive pitcher he had been carrying on the desk ,before slumping down on one of the upholstered chairs. "You have to admit that there has been a lot of letter-writing going on lately." Seeing that his friend and king was not swallowing the bait, he increased his teasing. "Will you send Hereward back tonight?"

Raising one of his eyebrows, Éomer gave him an ironical side glance. "You've got a bet on it?"

Still grinning, Éothain shook his head. "No, not me. It would not look fair, as I might try and influence you without the men being able to keep a check on it."

Éomer raised his eyebrows. "That bloke's quite eager to go, isn't he? And don't try to tell me that he hasn't got a wager up."

"Oh, he certainly has." Reaching for the pitcher, Éothain filled two mugs and shoved one in Éomer's direction. "He needs the money."

Éomer was surprised. "What for?" Since Hereward had come to Edoras five years ago, he had never been one to care for money or possessions apart from his horse, his saddle and his sword.

"Branda," Éothain said, taking a swig.

"Branda, who?" It always surprised Éomer with what an easiness his captain remembered anyone's name and the story and face to go with the name. He simply seemed to know every single commoner of the Mark.

"Cenric the blacksmith's sister-daughter, a woman in her forties with two grown up children. Been a widow for the last ten years. Her eldest son died in front of the Black Gate, leaving a pregnant young wife behind. Branda took her and the child in. She's running a smallholding a little further up from the ford. Makes butter and an excellent cheese, so I'm told."

"I doubt Hereward is interested in her because of her cheese-making." Éomer could not hold back the irony, though he suddenly saw the mug of buttermilk the courier had been given by the blacksmith's mother in quite a different light.

"One never knows." With a shrug Éothain put his mug on the desk. "He's been sweet on her for several months now. But I suppose you are right. Though her cheese-making has at least somehow to do with Hereward needing money." Seeing Éomer's enquiring look, he explained. "Branda has two cows, enough for a decent production, and together with the vegetables the women grow, they provide quite a decent living. But now her daughter wants to marry, and unfortunately it's Kenhelm, Everwin's son, she has set her eyes upon."

"Everwin's son?" Éomer gave a low whistle. "Not humble the lass, is she?"

Éothain laughed. "She has no reason to be, Éomer. She's a fine young woman and the lad dearly loves her." Turning his mug in his large hands, he shrugged. "Everwin has nothing against a marriage, claiming his heir does not need any woman's dowry, but his wife is a greedy old bitch, claiming that the son of the richest farmer in all the Folde could do better than marrying a smallholder's daughter. You know that vixen. If Kenhelm takes the girl against his mother's wishes, she certainly will make their life a misery."

"So Hereward needs the money for his sweetheart's daughter's dowry?" It was Éomer's turn now to take a swig. _Why did life always have to be so complicated?_

"Not exactly. Branda is proud, you see, proud and independent. And her daughter is as single-minded as her mother. One of the cows Branda has is a really exceptional animal, and Branda knows that Kenhelm's mother would give her eye-teeth to lay hands on that cow. Tried several times to buy it, but to no avail. Well, Brenda said that she will give the cow as her daughter's dowry to stuff that conceited bitch's gob. But that would leave her and her son's wife without a sufficient income. And that's where Hereward comes in." After pausing to take another swig, Éothain put the mug down and continued his explanation. "On one of his rides to Aldburg Hereward saw a heifer he thought might fit in with Branda's purposes. So now he wants to buy that animal as soon as possible and give it to Branda, to enable her to give her own cow to her daughter."

Éomer groaned. "And therefore that moron is wagering like a demon and risking his neck in a night ride up Harrowdale."

"It's not that much a risk, Éomer. There will be a half moon and clear skies as we are having eastern winds. And that will not change over night. And Hereward knows the road up to Dunharrow even if you blindfold him and his horse, too." With a lopsided grin Éothain added: "You see, not all men are that lucky to have their future wives presented to them on a silver tray."

Éomer snorted. "A silver tray! If Lothíriel was presented on anything at all it was those rocking and reeling planks of Amrothos' dratted boat."

Éothain eyed him with a somewhat thoughtful expression, turning the mug in his hands. "To tell you the truth, I have always wanted to ask you if you puked at all."

"I didn't, but to tell you the truth, I was on the brink of chucking up at least once." Éomer scratched his jaw. "I didn't foresee the boat's movement at a certain manoeuvre, and when the bloody nutshell careened, my stomach simply joined in." He shook himself. "Those sailing boats are worse than a bucking horse." Thoughtfully he reached for his mug. "In the end it was Mardil's own boat that killed the scum."

For a while the two friends sat in silence, until Éothain cleared his throat. "Well, Éomer, as you certainly did not summon me to chat about how to get married, tell me what's up before that old fox Eáldread turns up. He said he just needed to get some papers."

"Papers?"

Éothain shrugged. "I don't know. Presumably thinks them necessary. Bet you that man even carries some papers with him to bed."

Éomer could not help a chuckle. "I doubt Lady Mildred will let him."

Grinning at him over the brink of his mug, Éothain agreed. "Yeah, old as she is, she truly is a fine woman... and a fierce one."

"One more proof that the chief counsellor of the Mark is a fearless man," Éomer added. Wordlessly he shoved Elphir's letter into Éothain's hands, but the captain of his guard shook his head determinedly.

"It will take me ages to figure out what the letter means, more so as the whole thing is written in the Common Tongue. You had better read it out to me if you really want me to understand anything."

Seeing the sense of Éothain's remarks, Éomer did as his friend requested, and they had just finished discussing the major issues when Lord Eáldread finally arrived. The old counsellor entered, a thick leather folder under his arm and a quite impressive scroll in his hand.

"Sire, here is the latest topic of the marriage contract. I also brought the ones that have already been settled..."

Raising his hand, Éomer stopped his advisor's stream of words. "Lord Eáldread, as much as I appreciate your relentless efforts for the benefit of the Mark, I do not care about those contracts. I have every confidence that you will settle these things as is right and proper, but leave me alone with details about how many bedsheets the princess will bring into the marriage and how many fur-lined cloaks have to be provided by me."

The councillor looked truly miffed. "Sire, let me remind you that this is no simple niggling about household items, but a contract between realms. And certainly in such a contract each involved party would demand to have her points considered, as well as..."

"Enough!" Éomer's voice was biting. "Be that as it may. I will not interfere with your negotiations. But let me warn you: If your persistence in any point causes the wedding to be delayed by but one single day, you will be sorry for it. You and the rest of the council pestered me to take a wife, and take a wife I will. And doubtless one the Mark can be proud of."

The councillor tried to chime in at this point, but to no avail. Thrusting his forefinger into Eáldread's direction, Éomer started to pace the room with the ire of a caged predator. "I expect you to do everything to speed the conclusion of the contract and to make Princess Lothíriel feel welcome in the Riddermark."

"Certainly, Éomer Cyning. But you discompose yourself needlessly. The basic negotiations are all finished, and the date of the wedding is fixed, as you well know. That was done with much smoothness and speed, not least because Dol Amroth complied most amiably to the demands of the Mark."

"Stop it!" Éomer's fist slammed down on the windowsill. "Lord Eáldread, we are talking about a marriage, my marriage to be precise, and not about a treaty!"

The old man shook his head. "Éomer King, I'm afraid we are talking about the union of the leading families of two realms and all that has to be considered to keep dealings between these realms smooth in the future. You happen to be king of the Mark, Sire, and your choice affects the well-being and standing of an entire country. Yet there really is no reason to be upset, as everybody involved seems to be highly in favour of your choice."

Éomer grunted, and slumping behind his desk, he took the mug Éothain held out to him. "So if everything is fixed and fine, what is this scroll about?"

"Just some last arrangements to assure the princess' future in case..." The old counsellor certainly knew his danger, but being no less an Eorling, he faced his young king boldly. "...In case the marriage remains childless and you wish to set her aside."

Éomer clenched his mug. Where he had been hot with fury before, he felt ice-cold, angry beyond description. "In case I wish to do what?" His voice was a low and menacing whisper.

Eáldread shrugged. "Those Gondoreans think that there are two possibilities should the princess turn out to be barren. First, they suggest you do not cast her out but take a concubine to give you the necessary heir. A practise I dare say no Eorling will accept. Or you divorce her and send her back to Dol Amroth. They want a covenant that, and in what way, the princess will be supported to lead a life that befits her status, should that happen." The old counsellor pointed at the scroll. "They submit a proposal, complete with a list of what they think appropriate. So if you agree, I will simply sign it on your behalf."

"You will do nothing of the like." Only with great effort Éomer managed to keep his wrath under control. "If the queen proves barren, Éowyn's son will succeed me on the throne of the Mark, as did Fréaláf, Hild's son when Helm Hammerhand and his sons had perished, and as did I myself, being Théoden King's sister-son. And should she as well have no offspring, which is more than unlikely, there still is Gytha. Her mother is of Lord Elfhelm's line, a more than honourable house, and she is a child of the Éoredheap Segnung, so the blessing of the gods is on her."

Eáldread nodded. "Though there might be some discontent with the Lords of the Mark, I suppose in the end that solution would be accepted. But you have to bear in mind that there are differences in customs between Stoningland and the Mark."

Before Éomer had a chance to mouth his waning patience, Éothain spoke. "Why don't you just give them what they want to assure them of our goodwill and add that it won't be necessary though, because you would not set the queen aside even if she remained childless?"

Éomer looked up. That was Éothain as he knew him: practical, intelligent and not easily fussed. He nodded. "That certainly would be a solution. Lord Eáldread... "

But the old councillor shook his head. "Éomer King, don't forget that according to the laws and traditions of the Mark any woman has the right to demand a childless marriage to be cancelled . So even if you dispense with your own right of divorce, still you cannot take that right away from the queen."

Éomer swallowed. He never had wasted any thought at the possibility that their marriage would not be blessed. Did he not have a fine, promising daughter? And did Lothíriel not come of a fertile family? But he had to admit that Eáldread was right. He had to consider the laws of the Mark.

"Well, write then that the king of Rohan does not intend to set his wife aside, take a concubine or divorce her. Tell them that if she demands divorce out of her free will we agree to the conditions they propose or demand or whatsoever." Frustrated he raked both hands through his hair. "I'm no scribe and I did not ask you to come here to discuss the persnicketiness of the wedding contract but to inform you about Prince Elphir's letter concerning the threats from the South."

The old councillor gave him a half-smile. "Yet you want to marry Princess Lothíriel on the arranged day. I simply need your opinion, Éomer King. Once I have that I will most certainly be able to cope with any Gondorean councillor. As for the moment I'm afraid there is one more topic to consider."

"And that would be?" Éomer growled.

"The queen's allowances should you die and leave her a widow."

"Blimey, Lord Eáldread!" Even Éothain's voice sounded irritated now. "There are laws in the Mark concerning that. The livelihood of the queen dowager is assured without any contract or the like by ancient tradition. Everyone knows what is her due, up to the last wooden spoon."

Eáldread nodded. "That I know. But for those Gondoreans, agreements are only valid if they are written down."

"Béma's balls!" Annoyed Éomer slumped down on his chair. "Then write them down and have done with it!"

"Well... " Cumbersomely the advisor cleared his throat, before he opened the folder and took out a beige-coloured piece of paper. "There was a personal note by Princess Lothíriel with the scroll. She dictated it to Beorhtraed who wrote it in Rohirric."

Éomer stood dumbfounded. "And what has that to do with the widow's allowances?"

"The princess understands that there are traditional allowances to assure a way of living befitting her rank and she herself is well content with that. But she also knows that the mentioned items will not sound very impressive in the ears of the council of Dol Amroth."

Éomer gritted his teeth. "If the Mark's future queen is content with our traditions, I don't care what some stiff-arsed Gondoreans think about it."

Totally unimpressed the advisor tapped his finger on the paper. "The princess has talked this matter over with her brother, Prince Elphir, and they both suggest that the land and especially the horses given to the queen should be emphasised in the contract, whereas the traditional allowances should only be mentioned as such, without further explaining what they consist of."

"But land and horses are given to the queen at the coronation, the day after the consummation of the marriage."

Seeing the king frown, the old councillor smiled. "Certainly, Sire, but that has not been mentioned in any part of the contract up to now. It seems that there is no such custom in Gondor. The princess learned about it through Beorhtraed, who instructed her about the traditions and customs of the Mark. No doubt they talked about those that concerned herself and the marriage in particular."

Shoving the paper over to Éomer, Eáldread continued. "So as there is no reference in anything written as to when said horses and land will be bestowed upon the queen, they had better be mentioned in the document concerning the queen dowager. The princess states that as these donations will stay in her sole possession should she live longer than the king and doubtless will provide an important part of her income it will even be the truth." The councillor smiled faintly. "A slightly bent truth though I would deem it, but she is right that it would certainly show the Mark to the best advantage."

"But that is nonsense." Éomer slammed his fist on the desk. "She will get the land and horses as a morning gift. That is part of the coronation ritual!"

The councillor's smile deepened. "Certainly; Sire, and it will impress the nobles of the Falas quite a bit at the coronation that Rohan is that generous, as the contracts allow the donations only after your death. The facts remain, they will just be presented on a different plate. And that will save us the work to unravel the contracts already written." Nodding his thanks, he took the filled mug Éothain handed him. Taking a swig, he looked at the king, his face grave now. "The princess already thinks and acts like the queen of the Mark, favouring her to Gondor. She must trust you a lot to put her future into your hands like that, Éomer King."

**ooo**

About an hour later, Éomer sat at his desk, smoothing out the vellum. He had read her letter again several times, and each time the same strange mixture of guilt and ultimate joy had stirred him. He regretted that he had not finished the box yet, knowing that the next days would probably bring more letter-writing and council work as the most important lords of the Mark were to be informed about the latest development of affairs in the South. But that had to wait. His task now was to answer her letter, and that truly proved difficult enough. He was not sure if she was provoking him, challenging him. Her letter was such a mixture of the boldest statements and bawdy innuendoes on the one hand and the most soft and tender phrasing on the other, not to forget her keen observation and active mind concerning practical affairs. But had she not always been a mixture of all this and thousands of other traits?

He scanned the letter again, and then realisation dawned on him. Swiftly he spread her previous letters on the desk, comparing them. He was right: With each letter she had grown a bit bolder, more open in phrasing her desires, more forthright in her banter, more daring in her imagery. He sucked in his breath, contemplating the kind of letter he might receive next. He did not remember exactly what he had written in his letters, but he felt sure what he had to write in this one, though he did not know how to phrase it. He had to make it clear he understood her, loved her and was more than willing to play the game. He had to assure her how much she and her letters were appreciated… and he had to admit how these very letters made him feel. And that certainly would be the most difficult task.

He rolled his shoulders, feeling like before a sword-fight, took up the quill and started to write.

_Lothíriel, beloved one, _

_I got your letter in the afternoon and am in a hurry to answer, as the courier is going to take off to the Dimholt tonight. We are worried that with a change of weather there might be another landslide, blocking the gorge of the Morthond completely._

He stopped, hesitating. But thinking of her delight in any kind of banter and her own jibes in the last letter, he made an attempt to pick up her tone.

_Also there is a wager up in Edoras, whether I will send a rider as soon as tonight, and I feel that I owe some people a favour. Not that I would not have liked to answer your letter even sooner, let alone come over to Dol Amroth to give you my very personal answer, but as you already pointed out, I better had restrain myself. You know about a certain pirate princess who endangers my control over myself largely. And I have to admit that I do not intend to restrict myself to sneezing. I assure you, there are other ways to advance a pregnancy that are doubtless preferable, as I hope you will find out after our wedding._

He grinned, imagining her reaction. He was not sure who was challenging who, but he did not care. He would not provoke her, but he would respond to her deliberate provocations. If she wanted to play with fire, he would play along.

_Receiving your and Elphir's letters, I held council at once with my chief-councillor Eáldread and with Éothain, who officially is the captain of the King's Guard, but rather functions as the brain of my army, household and sometimes my very own one as well. I have not been able to talk to Erchirion yet, as he was in a sparring session in the afternoon and most likely plans some different kind of sparring in the evening, but he surely will be able to explain the meaning and importance of all the details concerning the navy. I'm glad he is here, not only for his deep friendship and martial skills, but also because I am sure that it will make you happy to know that he is well and feeling good._

Yet there was a topic he needed to address that suffered no banter whatsoever. Dipping the quill again, he made to write the next line in a much more serious mood.

_Lothíriel, Eáldread showed me the letter you had Beorhtraed write to him. It makes me feel so proud of you, of your cleverness and your consideration of the affairs and standing of the Mark and at the same time it shames me deeply. I have to admit that up to now I have refused to get involved with anything concerning the wedding contracts, leaving them to my councillors. I found them boring and bothersome, and perhaps I was afraid that they would dampen my feeling so glorious about your consent to be my wife and queen. I know you will be a more than perfect queen for the Mark, but I want you as my wife in the first place, so I tried to avoid anything that reminded me of the political part of our marriage._

_I never realised that these contracts affect your future life. And I should have. I knew that you will live in a land foreign to you, separated from your own kin. I realized that life might be difficult for you as things in Gondor and the Mark differ in many aspects. But though war is at our doorstep again, it did not occur to me that I well might leave you behind in a country still foreign to you, and yet as her ruling queen you then would be responsible for that country's well-being. And what is even more, I might fall, and how would you fare then, alone with a task I do not even see myself fit for at the moment? And I was born in the Mark and already have had a year to get acquainted to my tasks and duties as King of the Riddermark._

_All I strived for was to wed you, and there my thoughts stopped, as if every problem that might occur in this Middle Earth would simply stop to exist once I held you in my arms as my wife. I took a hand in it now, as your letter taught me that I had to. And I am sure that Lord Eáldread showed me your letter to make me realise just that. As I am writing this letter, he is busy phrasing what we worked out, trying to give as much assurance and yet freedom of decision to you as possible under the circumstances given. The draft of the contract will be sent to you personally, not to the council of Dol Amroth. Read it and discuss it with your family, and only if you agree we will proceed and send an official note to your council._

_But I would be lying to say that the thoughts and care for your future, especially for a future without me, are at the front of my mind. Your letter warmed me like a cup of mead, or rather one of your almond liqueur: sweet, strong and intoxicating, and with a slightly bitter after-taste, as it made me realise how much I miss you._

_To be sure, I felt happy and very much flattered that you said you missed me, and even more so by the way you described how you feel. You are bold, my pirate, and I found it exceedingly difficult to behave in a civil manner when reading your letter. And I had to, as I was reading it right away at the farrier's, where the errand rider met me. I certainly will be more cautious with your future letters. _

_I would have liked to just take Firefoot and ride over to Dol Amroth on the spot, but as well in that matter you thought deeper than me. I thought about the scandal and the difficulties it might cause, as certainly your family would have regarded my behaviour as a breach of confidence, but I never looked behind the point at hand. It troubled me deeply to read your accurate consideration should a child have come out of our union. You are so terribly right about people's reaction, and to imagine that something I wish for with all my heart, a child, my child, could cause you grief makes my blood run cold. _

He realised that it was getting too dark to continue writing without a candle. Though he had hesitated little and been sure in most sentences how to express himself, the mere process of writing had taken him much longer than he had expected. And still there was one important topic. He felt he owed her an answer to her question concerning his behaviour and feelings on Tol Cobas. She had played her card, and he was determined to follow suit.

_I do not want to close my letter in that dismal tone though. You ask me whether I enjoyed other things than the food during our meal on Tol Cobas. My dear pirate, what other things? Perhaps some princess glancing at me out of the corners of her eyes? And what was it exactly you wanted me to be interested in? _

_But I would lie if I told you I noticed that you had been interested in me. It was much later, while I was struggling to refrain from strangling that brother of yours for interrupting us on the battlements that I learned from Amrothos how special that green headscarf you had given to me was for you. And that was well after I had already spoken to your father._

_No, I did not notice you wanted me to be interested in you, but I nevertheless was. And very much so. I have to admit, not in a very appropriate way though in the beginning, as the first thing I really noticed about you after that terrible misunderstanding of the morning had been cleared up was the admirable shape of your calves and ankles as you waded ashore. That certainly shattered all my prejudices about Gondorean women and opened my mind and my heart for all the impressions that were to follow that day._

_And there were so many of them: your straightforwardness, the intelligent way you talked, your efficiency in removing those dratted spikes, your laughter, your impressive anger, your care for me, your reckless daring, your courage and determination... And all these things added up during that one incredible day we spent together, like single drops of water, filling the vessel of my heart till in the evening it simply brimmed over and I could not but want to have you near me for the rest of my life._

_You asked me, Lothíriel, and I tried to answer as best as I could. Are you ready to answer one of my questions now? At that meal on Tol Cobas, that I was happy to learn you enjoyed as much as I did, was it really by accident that you fell across my lap? I had thought so until the moment I read your letter, but now I'm not sure if it was not a very ruthless attempt to board the enemy's ship. Not that I mind now, I assure you, you are most welcome to repeat that assault any time, but you caused me a lot of inconvenience that moment. I felt like one of those poor lobsters, but rather like one roasted alive._

_I can imagine you are giggling now, but please refrain from showing this confession to Sídhríl or worse, my sister, as I would never be able to live it down. I am happy though that you have women you feel close to and free to talk with in your family. Your mother is right to suggest you should speak with Éowyn and I'm sure you will get along nicely. I just fear that when we meet again you will look at me and rock with laughter due to all the gossip she will tell you._

_And as for Melian: There is no woman with that name in the entire Folde, and I assure you that no one, doll or woman, Melian or of any other name is sharing my bed. Though there is a certain pirate princess that approaches in the dead of night and fills my dreams with sweet torture._

_Lothíriel, my love, I miss you and I wish it was already spring._

_Éomer_


	14. Chapter 14

Thank you all very much for your interest in my story, it certainly makes me very happy. I beg your pardon if I should have forgotten to thank anybody who reviewed personally, and I assure you it was not at all on purpose but due to the finals and the start of the "vegetable-season" (well, and certainly my progressing dotage ;-)).

I managed to correct the errors in chapter 13 thanks to your hints and **sep12**'s relentless beta-reading, therefore I feel free to post another "un-betaed" chapter. I will be over to one of the East-Frisian islands (lovely beaches and excellent sailing area ) and I won't come back before Tuesday, and that would be later than the promised fortnight-interval of updating.

So you can chose: Read the story now and tolerate a few mistakes, or wait till next week for the "betaed" version.

* * *

><p>So here comes the betaed version now, thanks to <strong>sep12.<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 14<strong>

Putting down the soft woollen cloth he had been polishing the box with, Éomer let his thumb slide over the carved flowers on its top. Burnishing had taken him longer than he had expected, but eager to do his best, he had polished out even the tiniest kink and roughness before carefully applying a thin layer of warmed beeswax. The scent of the juniper oil he had mixed it with hung in the air of his study, adding a tart note to the sweetness of the wax. Smiling he placed the box on the cloth. He would let the polish soak in over night and work it to the final lustre first thing the next day. Already now the wood glowed warmly in the candlelight, the carvings standing out more distinctly due to the shadows.

The letter to go with the box lay already written in his drawer, his treasure chest, as Frithuswith had called it with a mocking undertone after she had caught him more than once reading Lothíriel's letters when entering the study in her abrupt way.

But now apart from Lothíriel's letters and Melian, the rag-doll, it held a true treasure. Carefully he reached for the small bundle of carded wool, and placing it in front of him on the desk, he removed the upper layer. There it was. An ancient piece of the royal treasure of the Mark, shining in the warm light of the candles. Silver and garnets, their rich deep red emphasised by the creamy white of the wool. A silver net, studded with gems arranged in the shape of flowers. How even more glorious would they glow on her living skin!

He breathed deep. The first piece of jewellery he was giving her, his love and future queen. He had given her the traditional betrothal gift, the clasp of his cloak, and though that certainly had been an exquisite gift, a beautifully crafted golden disc the seize of his palm, displaying the sun of the Riddermark, he had all the time wanted to give her something more personal. Slowly his fingers stroked over the necklace. The fire of the stones was untarnished, even after decades in the treasury of Meduseld, but the silver had darkened to almost sable. His first thought had been to have it polished, but then he had realised how the dark metal would highlight both the shimmer of her skin and the intense glow of the stones.

Garnets! His smile deepened to a grin. The stone of passion and courage, trustworthiness and success. And he knew that it had that symbolic meaning not only in the Mark, as garnets adorned the hilt of more than one weapon given to the kings of the Mark over the last centuries by the Ruling Stewards of Gondor.

Lifting the necklace, he turned it and kissed the back of the jewellery, relishing in the thought that soon the gems he had kissed would cover her throat. Just one more night, then four days on the road down to Dol Amroth... In less than a sennight his present would reach her.

Wrapping the necklace again in its envelope of wool, he placed it back into the drawer when a knock at the door was heard.

"Cum in!" Swivelling round, he faced Winfrid and behind him a Rider, hair and cloak soaking wet from the heavy rain that was lasting for the second day.

"Excuse me Sire, but a messenger from Lord Aedhelmaer of Snowbourne has just arrived, seeking to speak with the king." Stepping aside, the boy made room to let the Rider pass, who respectfully bowed his head to greet the king.

"Westu Éomer Cyning hal. Lord Aedhelmaer sends me with urgent news: A second landslide came down this morning. The ravine of the Blackroot is blocked.

**ooo**

"Thank you for coming so swiftly, Éomer Cyning." Aedhelmaer, Lord of Snowbourne, a bulky man well into his sixties, greeted the king respectfully and as Éomer noticed, with no little amount of relief, when he dismounted at the Firien Field in the late afternoon of the next day. The rain had abated quite soon after their departure from Edoras, granting them a rather pleasant ride up to Dunharrow, but Aedhelmaer's cloak and hair were damp nevertheless.

Noticing the king's curious look, Lord Aedhelmaer explained: "I'm just coming from the other side of the passage. They are getting a magnificent downpour over there. And not the first one, to tell the truth. Gondor has been in for that kind of crap weather for weeks now."

Éomer nodded. "That's most probably what brought the further landslide down. Hereward told me the other day that the Gondoreans quite expected something like that in the course of the winter."

"Well, Sire, be that as it may, I would very much appreciate you to have a look at the situation after some rest for horse and rider. My men took quarters in the main cave. It's dry and there is a fire, the smoke clearing quite nicely through some cracks in the roof."

About an hour later they found themselves in the hall-like cave, a fire burning near the far end of it, well out of the draft from the passage, and sitting down on a thick layer of dry heather and twigs, the king and the Lord of Snowbourne soon were in an animated discussion over a meal of stew and bread, replenished by the provisions Frithuswith had packed for Éomer.

"It's not so much the blocking of the road that bothers me." Gesturing with a chunk of bread somewhere into the direction of the Gondorean side, Lord Aedhelmaer tried to explain his point of view. "The real problem is that the second slide reaches well into the bed of the Morthond, thus damming it up. It is but a brook that high up in the gorge, but small as it is, with that amount of water bucketing down daily it will flood the entire gorge upstream the slide."

Éomer scratched his jawline thoughtfully. "That might prove quite dangerous for the Gondoreans if they start clearing away the rubble in spring and all the pooled up water drains out in one rush."

Aedhelmaer nodded. "And not only that. We might not be able to reach the blocking any more to support them if the water gets too deep until then. The gorge is quite steep at that point, so there might well be a depth of more than ten feet of water in spring. Given the dam holds."

"So what do you suggest?"

Putting down his bowl, the Lord of Snowbourne eyed the king with some hesitation. "I have men who are willing to clear away a channel through the rubble to secure at least some drainage. Enough to prevent an uncontrolled pooling that might even flood the caves. But that bloody gill is Gondorean territory. I wouldn't like my men crawling around there without the king's order."

"I see." Dipping some bread into his stew, Éomer gave the lord of Snowbourne a sharp look. "You have quite an interest to keep the passage open, haven't you?"

But the older man was not easily fussed. He solemnly nodded. "There are reasons for that, Éomer King. There are two major villages and half a dozen hamlets in my fief, but all in all there are not more than five men between the ages of twenty and forty alive in them. We bled white at the fords of the Isen and in front of Mundburg, Sire, leaving only those too young and those too old to go to war behind. And though my people stand loyal to Eorl's House, they see how others prosper with the peace they have paid for with their loved ones' blood while they stand aside. With that passage becoming a trading-route there would be a chance to develop some business for them as well."

"There certainly is a chance, Aedhelmaer," Éomer acknowledged, "though I deem it necessary to plan things carefully. It would not do to risk your peoples' resources imprudently."

Lord Aedhelmaer nodded. "I know that both villages are too remote to become a trading place, but Dunharrow could be made into some kind of a road stop. Not few of the carters were quite content to stay on the Firien Field after the ascent from Erech and the passage through the tunnel that tended to frighten some of the animals during this year's summer and autumn. They let their animals rest before going down into Harrowdale with fresh strength the next morning."

Handing the king one of the filled tankards his men had deposited nearby, Aedhelmaer continued. "Some of the lads came up here to sell them fresh milk and bread, and then some of the women struck up a field kitchen and provided stews, something the carters were well satisfied with. When the weather turned bad they found out that one could light a fire in here without any problem... And that's how their plans started."

A smile appeared on the old man's stern face. "They talked my ears off at Commoners' Council, about storerooms up in the cave, stables, fodder for the draught animals and I know not what. Éomer King, for the first time after the War there was a mood different from stubborn endurance in Snowbourne. Mind you, they had never given up, but with that passage and the traffic going through, Harrowdale suddenly stopped being a forgotten corner of the realm. That passage is no road like any other. It gives hope to my people and therefore I'll try what I can for this hope to blossom."

Wordlessly Éomer shoved a piece of the soft Gondorean cheese over to Aedhelmaer. "Have a try. It's made from ewe's milk. What do you think, would the wives of Snowbourne be able to produce something like that?"

Aedhelmaer chewed the piece carefully. "Not bad, though a bit salty."

Éomer grinned. "It's a favourite with the Gondoreans. And Harrowdale is known for its dairy sheep. If your people are willing, I would try to find a good Gondorean cheese maker to teach them, and then they would be able to sell to both the Mark and Gondor."

"If we manage to keep that dratted passage open." The face of the older man was grim.

Éomer nodded. "It all comes down to that damned landslide. Well, let's have a look at it then and decide what to do."

Draining their tankards, they stood and soon made to ride for the ravine of the Blackroot.

**ooo**

The way down the ravine was slow, the ground being slippery with rain and mud in the trails left by the countless wagons. Well before reaching the blocking of the road, they were confronted with its results, as the water of the dammed brook had flooded the road and soon their horses were knee-deep in muddy water. They halted. Some thirty yards ahead, a heap of mud, rubble and larger boulders blocked the road, although the waters of the Morthond seemed to find their way through the barrier at least at one point close to the right-hand wall of the gorge. There it shot through a smallish gap like through some gutter, but that was by far not enough to limit the flooding of the road. On the now cracked left-hand wall water rushed down in what looked like a smallish waterfall, making the flooding even worse.

"We had better not ride on," Lord Aedhelmaer stated. "The gorge drops steeply from here onwards. I don't think it safe to proceed on horseback."

Eyeing the slope in front of them, Éomer snorted. "I don't think it safe to proceed at all."

On this side of the Dwimorberg the rain was pouring down in a steady flow out of a cheerless grey sky. There was no wind, and now that they halted, there was no sound save the rain and the occasional snort of a horse or jingle of the tack. Éomer frowned, recollecting the lay of the road from his former transits. The gorge was wide enough to allow four riders to ride abreast without hampering one another even in the narrowest place and the surface of the road was solid rock in most places. He remembered that there was a certain stretch that was rather steep compared with the rest of the passage, and obviously it was just at that point the landslide had come down.

And then there was something. Something in the air, in the ground, the walls of the gorge around them. A strange vibration, rather felt than heard, like rolling thunder miles away. It took him a split second to realise their danger.

"Back! Move Back!" Pulling Firefoot's head around, he made for the entrance of the tunnel as fast as possible on the slippery ground. Fortunately the Riders following them had at once understood the situation and turned, but the horses were skittish, eager to break into a gallop despite the precarious surface. And then disaster was upon them in the shape of a gigantic avalanche of mud and water.

Éomer felt the impact like the blow of a cudgel in his back, felt Firefoot's hind quarters give way, and throwing himself forward in the saddle he tried to lighten the weight on the stallion's hind legs. Skidding precariously for a split second, the big grey found his feet and lunged forward, heavily hampered by the mud that was swiftly filling up the gill.

Right in front of him he noticed the Lord of Snowbourne, hunched over the neck of his horse. They had been the nearest to the slide, their horses were sure-footed... there was a chance they would make it. Just when he realized from the sound of the hooves that the first men ahead of them must have reached not flooded ground, he saw Winfrid's sorrel go down.

Having been on the alert, the boy managed to pull both feet out of the stirrups when his gelding slipped and crashed down, but the motion of the panicking horse flung him off, and just as Firefoot sped by, Éomer beheld his squire crash headlong against one of the boulders on the side of the ravine. Desperately he tried to bring the grey to a halt, to cause him against all the horse's instincts to turn and face the still rising flood.

Managing at last, he brought the stallion to a halt beside Windfrid's crumpled form. Talking to the destrier in a low and soothing voice, the king swiftly dismounted and pulling the limp body out of the mud, he placed the boy face down across Firefoot's withers. Some paces further down the gorge the sorrel was floundering in the ever rising mud, desperately trying to get his feet again. A brief glance into the direction of the slide showed Éomer that it was mostly water that now gushed over the side of the ravine. Losing no more time he swung into the saddle, and pulling Winfrid's body close to his chest, he nudged Firefoot forwards to the safety of the cave.

Folcred and Berhtulf of the King's Guard had already dismounted and handed their panicking horses to some of Aedhelmaer's men and now came running back. Reaching the entrance of the tunnel, Éomer let Winfrid slide into their arms and with a rush of relief he heard the boy groan as he did so. At least the lad was alive.

Kneeling beside the injured boy, Éomer called out his name and after a while Winfrid opened his eyes, glancing wearily at the king.

"Winfrid, can you hear me?"

The boy made an attempt to nod and then grimaced with pain. "My head..." He closed his eyes again, shuddering slightly. And then, with a sudden convulsion of his body, Winfrid rolled over and started to retch.

There was not much they could do but hold him, steady his head and brush his tangled strands out of his face until finally the heaving subsided and the small body sank exhausted against Éomer. They placed the boy on one of the Riders' cloak, and Éomer held his canteen against Winfrid's lips. "Come on, clean your mouth, lad. But don't swallow the water."

Anxiously he scanned the boy for signs of a broken skull, but Winfrid's face was so muddied that one could not detect any flow of blood or other liquids out of nose and ears for certain. Neither was the colour of the skin around the eyes clear, but the boy stayed conscious now. He shivered and complained about his aching head but did not feel any pain in other parts of his body.

They decided to carry him to the main cave and were just about lifting him, when a sound from the gorge made them freeze. It was a mixture of scraping and gurgling, as if some mountain giant was mimicking poor Winfrid's vomiting, and then the grinding of rubble and the rumble of boulders could be heard, until after a while the noise died down and there was nothing more than the falling rain again.

Éomer stood and made for the entrance, but Lord Aedhelmaer held him back. "No, Éomer King. It's no use to go out there now. Let's make for the main cave. I'll leave some guards here to find out if his mount is still alive and warn us, if the water should rise, and I'll have a scout check on the condition of the road tomorrow morning at first light."

They were just about to turn when another noise alerted them, and out in the gathering dark of the ravine the limping figure of the sorrel could be discerned. Coated in mud, head hanging low, he seemed on the brink of collapsing any time, but though he had to stop every second step he nevertheless hobbled on determinedly.

"Poor old bugger." Talking soothingly to the injured gelding, Folcred approached him and managed to find the reins under the thick layer of mud that covered the horse's head and neck.

"Lead him into to cave if he can manage," Aedhelmaer said in a low voice, but nevertheless Winfrid heard him.

The boy's eye's flew open. "Strawbérie," he whispered, and extended a hand towards the exhausted horse.

"Strawbérie?" Despite the dire situation, Aedhelmaer could not help a grin. Folcred nodded, grinning likewise.

Pulling at Éomer's hand, Winfrid tried to get the king's attention. "Let him walk beside Folcred's stallion, Sire. That will help him to hang on. They are friends." The boy's voice was barely audible, but Éomer was relived that what he said made sense. Squeezing Winfrid's hand assuringly, he gave orders and soon they were on their way back to the main cave.

When they finally arrived, the hall of the cave bustled with action. The fire burned brightly on the make-shift hearth, kettles to heat water hung over it, and all around men were busy, getting rid of their mud-caked clothes or brushing down their likewise muddied horses.

They placed Winfrid on a layer of heather and bracken and while two of Aedhelmaer's men saw to him, getting him out of his soaked clothes and washing off at least the larger part of the mud, Éomer and his guards had time to clean up themselves. He was thankful that they had left their saddlebags back in the cave, so at least their sleeping rolls and blankets would be dry tonight.

"They already sent someone down to fetch a healer," Aedhelmaer informed the king, "but it will take some time before she can make it up here."

Éomer nodded. "Let's hope it's just a concussion. Bur nevertheless we should keep a close eye on the lad."

Aedhelmaer nodded his affirmation, when out of the corner of his eyes Éomer saw Folcred approach. The standard bearer was still mud-splattered as he had first seen to their horses. Silently Éomer awaited the young Rider's verdict concerning the sorrel.

"Nothing broken or disrupted, as far as I can see. But he'll need some time to recover before he'll be able to make the way down." Folcred's face was sedate as was his voice. "I'd better go and tell Winfrid, before the runt gets too worked up."

Following his standard bearer, Éomer found a nearly clean Winfrid wrapped up warm on a bed of heather and bracken near the hearth, and though the boy looked utterly exhausted and in pain, a small smile played around his lips at Folcred's announcement.

After almost three hours the healer finally arrived, a wizened white-haired woman in the company of a young one who obviously acted as her assistant. Greeting the king and their lord in a brusque way that bordered on open impoliteness, the old woman went over to examine Winfrid, while her companion gave the men a friendly smile, before following her.

Despite her snappiness towards the lords, the crone was gentle though short-spoken with the boy and tried to spare him any pain she could during her examination. Having finished, she talked to the young woman, and shooting Éomer a last side glance, she made for the other side of the hearth, where Aedhelmaer's men had prepared a bed for her and wordlessly lay down.

The young woman had sat down beside Winfrid, and crouching down beside her, Éomer asked after the boy's condition.

"Grandmother thinks it's nothing worse than a concussion. I'll observe him for four more hours, and if he doesn't vomit or faint during that time, he can at least drink some tea. And if that stays down, we'll try some gruel in the morning." She smiled at Winfrid, stroking the boy's hand. "I'm sorry, but I can't give you anything against the pain yet, as the painkillers we have, might cause some bleeding into your brain, in case Grandmother errs and there is something broken. We better had put a pillow under your head to position it a bit higher, and then you should try to get some sleep."

For a while they sat in silence, and only when she was sure the boy was asleep did the woman turned to Éomer, addressing him in a hushed voice. "Forgive Grandmother for her brusqueness, Éomer King, she is gruff and more stubborn than any mule, but she is a competent and committed healer."

Éomer nodded. "I never doubted her abilities, but I don't understand her behaviour."

The woman sighed. "Not all are happy with the opening of the Dunharrow passage, Éomer Cyning. There are especially the old who greatly mistrust any changes, not least when they come from outside the Mark." She gave him a wry smile. "Though I dare say that for some the Westfold would count as 'outlandish' enough."

"And what do you think about it?"

"I?" She shrugged. "The same as nearly everybody in Harrowdale. It is a great chance for us to prosper, though I know that any progress or change holds the danger of losing things that are dear to you." She thoughtfully wagged her head. "I suppose that will be the most difficult thing: to hold fast to those traditions that are worth it and to let go of those that have outlived their meaning."

Winfrid stirred and groaned, and their attention was directed to him, but the boy did not wake. The woman looked at him carefully, and finding no problem, she passed the back of her hand over her own face, her tiredness all of a sudden obvious.

Éomer gently touched her elbow. "Have some sleep, I'll stay with him and wake you if anything occurs."

She nodded. "Wake me at the merest hint of any trouble and at the latest in four hours." With that she went to lay down beside the crone who was softly snoring on the other side of the hearth.

One by one the men wrapped themselves in blankets and cloaks and went to sleep, except for those who had been appointed to stand guard, and having added some more fuel to the fire on the hearth, Éomer went to sit beside his sleeping squire, pondering the day's events. After a while Folcred approached him with a mug of hot cider, and bidding the man to have an eye on Winfrid, Éomer went over to check on Firefoot. He knew it was needless, as his Riders had taken care of the stallion, but the great grey seemed to enjoy the contact likewise. Most of the mud had been brushed out of his coat, the rest would have to wait until tomorrow.

A look at the candle clock placed in a nook close to the hearth made him realise that it was already past midnight. Taking his place besides Winfrid again, he sent Folcred off to sleep. The quiet made the dark of the cave more profound, and Éomer wondered all of a sudden if moon and stars were still following their eternal course through the sky outside this rock-enshrined hollow in the bowels of the mountain. How many hopes there lay in the passage, and here he was: stuck below the mountain, the road to Gondor closed... and perhaps for good.

Suppressing a sigh, he reached for the mug Folcred had left with him, feeling as if the entire weight of the rock around him was placed on his shoulders. He shook himself. It was useless to get pathetic. They would go and check the ravine at first light, and if there was any possibility to clear away the slide they would do it. And draining the mug, the king of the Mark turned his thoughts to a much more pleasant topic: silver and garnets on cream-coloured skin. A faint smile stole over his face. It was just a pity it would take so many days now till she would get his present.

**ooo**

He was bending over Winfrid's sleeping form, tucking the blankets around the boy's shoulders from where they had slid off with the boy turning in his sleep, when he felt the presence of somebody standing at his side. Looking up, he beheld the old healer, who, bending down, took in the boy's features carefully, before shuffling off to the hearth, where she kindled the fire and put a small kettle to it.

Éomer stretched himself. In his damp clothes he felt cold despite the blanket around his shoulders and cramped from sitting beside Winfrid for hours, and all of a sudden his stomach rumbled in the silence of the cave.

He stood and unearthed some more cheese and half a loaf of bread wrapped in a clean cloth out of his saddlebags, and settling himself again close to the sleeping boy, he started to eat slowly, when suddenly a mug of steaming peppermint-tea was shoved under his nose. Looking up, he met the old woman's gaze, but her face was cool and unreadable.

Nodding his thanks to the crone, he took the mug, and when she seated herself with surprising mobility, he pushed the cloth with the provisions towards her. Eyeing the cheese suspiciously, she nevertheless tried it, and for a short while they sat, sharing their meal in silence.

Taking the empty mugs, the healer finally rose. "Get some sleep, I'll have an eye on the boy." She did not even bother to look at him.

He felt irritated by her forbidding behaviour, and healer or not, he was not putting up with it. His expression not giving away anything, he addressed he directly and bluntly: "I appreciate your help, ealder modor, but I certainly do not relish your tone. What ails you?"

She stared daggers at him, but her voice was surprisingly composed when she finally answered: "You should not have made Dunharrow a passage to Stoningland. It just shortens the way for all kinds of evil to come at us. Is it not enough that you lords led our men to die on foreign soil? Mind you, I agree they had to go, keeping the oath our ancestors took. But there was no need to lead this Gondorean scum into Harrowdale. Men who do not know the rules of the gods."

He opened his mouth to answer, but she forestalled him, pointing at Winfrid. "Look at this boy, Éomer King. What business did he have down in that cursed ravine? Why do you think that landslide came down? Why can't you accept that the gods don't want us to use that way?"

He shook his head, but without heeding him, the crone continued, her voice getting more bitter with every sentence. "The Dwimorberg is an eldritch place, no man living should walk there. The landslide was a warning; one you should heed. But instead you lords put ideas about a new way of life into the heads of our children." Lifting her bony hand, she pointed a gnarled forefinger at him. "You will not be able to clear the gorge of the Blackroot of all the rubble. And if you try, more will come down, killing the men that work for you. Only the gods themselves can reopen the passage now, as the gods themselves closed it."

Éomer heaved a breath, sensing the fear hidden under the layer of wrath in the old woman's words. He knew there was nothing he could do to console her or change her mind. Slowly he bent his head. "I hear your words, ealder modor, and it grieves me to behold your misgivings. But in the hands of the gods we all are, and for the help of the gods I beg. Let us not quarrel now in the dead of night. The dawn may give us an answer."

"Sire?"

With a jolt Éomer noticed that Winfrid was awake, eyeing them with obvious unease. The healer rose and went to fetch a mug of tea for the boy. Shoving an arm under the boy's shoulders, Éomer helped him into a position to drink, and with slow sips, pausing in between, Winfrid emptied the mug.

"Hold him like that for a while before you lay him down again. It will help keeping the tea down." The old healer's voice was even, concealing the emotion that had burnt in her eyes a minute ago. Only when she met Éomer's gaze, a ghost of the previous glare shot over her face, and with her eyes resembling stony beads, she bent forward to the king, whispering with open defiance: "As long as the gods themselves do not open the road to the South again, Éomer King, I will not accept your right to use it."

**annotations:**

**cum in:** (Rohirric/Old English) come in

**Strawbérie:** (Rohirric/Old English) strawberry

As I try to be as realistic as possible (without getting boring :-)), I had Éomer check for the signs of a skull fracture after Winfrid's accident: flow of blood and/or lymph out of nostrils and ears, and the skin around the eyes turning blueish, due to bleeding into the eye sockets.

Retching occurs with most concussions, and it might be fatal, if the injured person is unconscious and gets the vomit into the lungs. Therefore a close observation is absolutely necessary.

The painkillers the young healer refers to would be meadowsweet and willow bark, both containing salicylic acid, which reduces the ability of blood to clod. Thus it could be fatal for a person with a skull injury, as it could cause severe bleeding into the brain.


	15. Chapter 15

Three cheers to **sep 12** for working overtime, beta-ing the next chapter! So here comes No.15, and it's yet another one without any "romance" aka "steamy letters", but I hope you will like it nevertheless. ;-)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 15<strong>

"You had a dispute with our amiable healer?" The easy tone of the Lord of Snowbourne could not wholly disguise his concern. They were on their way to meet the guards left at the southern entrance of the tunnel as soon as there was enough daylight to have an overview of the situation.

Éomer nodded. "I had indeed, Aedhelmaer. How many more like her are there in Snowbourne?"

Aedhelmaer shrugged. "Not many. But she certainly is a prominent and influential one, especially with the old." He grimaced. "She always has been a feisty one, ready to bully anyone who opposed her, and such behaviour does not breed friendship. Anything and anybody not from the Eastfold she sees as an alien and intruder. With that attitude it does not sit well with her that her only granddaughter fell for one of the Gondorean carters passing through. Especially as said carter obviously left some of his cargo behind."

"The young woman who came with her?" That would at least explain her exhaustion.

Aedhelmaer nodded. "Sunngifu. A good woman. She'll make an apt healer once old Eadburga decides to retire. Treated one of the carter's lads who got trampled by one of the horses, and that's how it started. You can well imagine how it set tongues wagging."

"And what do you think about it?"

The Lord of Snowbourne shrugged. "I won't mind some able men settling in Harrowdale. And I don't care a fart if the bloke has dark hair as long as he's decent. And there's the rub. People know she told him, and everyone expected him to stay after the last delivery of timber. But he didn't."

"_Men who do not know the rules of the gods_." He suddenly saw the crone's hateful remark in quite a different light. "And what does Sunngifu say about it?"

"Nothing." Aedhelmaer shrugged again. "She's not one given to talk. But she seems happy enough being pregnant, because after having lost her first-born as an infant she had never conceived again."

Éomer frowned. "She's married?"

"Widowed. Like too many up here in Snowbourne." Aedhelmaer's face was grave. "It's a woman's sacred right to breed, Éomer King, but I would feel much more comfortable if I knew that the offspring had a father who supported them."

They had reached the end of the tunnel by now, and Éomer at once felt the difference of the air. Where it had been windless and wet the other day, now an icy breeze could be felt even in the depth of the ravine, its chill making him shiver in his still slightly damp clothes. Just when they were about to dismount, they noticed the scout sauntering up to them, his face in a broad grin.

"The passage is open. I've been all the way down to the cabin, and though you will have to ride slowly and careful, and of course single file, there is no serious hindrance."

They met him with disbelief. Had they not seen the huge slide blocking the road the other night? Had they not nearly been caught in that terrible gush of mud and water? Driven by curiosity they followed the scout, who had turned his mount and rode back into the ravine before them.

After about a hundred yards the ground of the ravine was covered with a layer of mud which thickened the further they advanced into the gorge, until it became difficult for the horses to proceed. But just at that point, where any further advance seemed impossible, the Morthond, whose original channel was completely blocked by mud and rubble further down, started to change its bed, meandering through the mud, thus clearing a twisting trail they could follow, riding single file without serious problems.

When they reached the steeper part of the ravine, where the slides had come down, Éomer simply gaped. Parts of the walls had collapsed, creating a recess, and there a brook now fell down from the upper edge of the wall, and both streams together flowed through the remains of the slide, larger boulders and heaps of rubble, the tops still covered in mud, but where the water had found its way, the ground was fairly clear.

Aedhelmaer scratched his beard. "Looks as if the pooled water simply swept the slide away."

The scout nodded. "The entire heap was not stable at all, being mostly loose rubble, which could not hold back the weight of the mud and the water that came down last night. And being placed on the steeply sloping part of the road, it gave way, once the water had pooled up enough. You will find the remains dispersed all down the gorge until its mouth, where the main part of the mud has been deposited, well up to the hut."

Éomer frowned. "Was the cabin manned? Has anybody come to harm?"

"Everything is just fine," assured the scout. "The hut itself lays a bit higher, and the guards held back anyone who wanted to pass."

"Any errand rider?" Éomer could not imagine anybody else being up here to cross the passage, with the rain of the past days or even weeks and the roads being in such a piteous state on the Gondorean side.

The scout shook his head. "No, Sire" Turning to Lord Aedhelmaer, he grinned. "But surely some people in Underharrow will wish they had not opened their trap that far. Gorlim the carter has come back, and I for once am more than ready to welcome him."

Aedhelmaer chuckled. "So am I." Turning to Éomer, he pointed ahead. "Let's go down to the hut, I can well imagine that it will improve the speed of the clearance if the Gondoreans see that the King of the Mark in person shows his concern about the passage."

They continued their way, slowly and carefully, and it became obvious that though transport on horseback might be possible, it would take major earthworks to make the ravine traversable by carts again. Reaching the cabin they dismounted, greeted respectfully by the guards, and Éomer learned that already a messenger had been sent off to inform Lord Duinhir of Morthond about the ongoings in the gorge. They were discussing the reasons for the landslides, when a young man leading a strong-framed horse, followed by two high-packed mules came up to them. A dark-haired boy, not older than five or six years, perched in the saddle of the horse.

"Good morning..." He hesitated slightly and then said with a heavy accent: "Westu Éomer Cyning hal." Seeing the riders grin, he blushed, but then thought better of it. "At least I'm trying," he said with a shrug."

"So you are Gorlim?" Éomer asked.

The man blushed again. "Yes, I am, Dorlas' son, carter from Edhellond ."

Aedhelmaer pointed at the mules. "Still more trade this late in the year?"

Gorlim shook his head. "No, my lord. I've come to settle in Underharrow, if you will allow me to do so. I have an affirmation by the Lady of Edhellond that I am free and honest and I brought what might be useful to found a family and my son Dorlam."

"To found a family?" Lord Aedhelmaer grinned openly now.

"Sunngifu didn't want to come with me to Gondor, claiming she had a responsibility, being Harrowdale's healer, and I think she's right." The Gondorean shrugged. "A carter will find work on both sides of the mountains, and it was about time my son got a mother." He turned and smiled at the boy, patting his knee. "She's nice, you'll see."

The little boy shrugged. "She can't be worse than Aunt Firiel."

Laughing, Éomer pointed up the ravine. "You had better go then, and be careful. The gorge might be open, but it's treacherous ground. And I suppose there is someone up in the cave you will be happy to see."

"Yes," added Aedhelmaer, "and someone you will not at all be happy to see, as her grandmother is with her. But if you want to settle in the North, you had better get used to fighting dragons."

**ooo**

When Éomer came back to Edoras two days later, not only Frithuswith awaited him with the welcome-cup on the terrace of Meduseld, but Éothain stood at her side, only with difficulty hiding a grin. Once inside, Erchirion rose from one of the benches and at his side Éomer noticed Master Calimab, the Gondorean carpenter.

Walking up to him, Imrahil's son caught him in a bear hug. "Blimey, Brother, you really are getting famous, aren't you?"

Laughing at Éomer's frown, Erchirion patted his friend on the shoulder. "The gossip climbed down much faster from Dunharrow than you. Man, they're singing your praise: The fearless King of the Mark who by his mere appearance opened the passage again, flushing the slide into nothingness."

"Stop waffling." Éomer felt uneasy, especially as everyone's eyes were on him. "You know it's absolute nonsense. I didn't do anything of the like, rather got washed out when that damned ravine got flooded."

The craftsman had risen too, and now bowed to the king. Smiling, Éomer greeted the carpenter. He had obviously been sharing a meal with Erchirion, as some plates with bread, cheese and chillies stood on the table. Noticing his friend's gaze, Erchirion grinned. "Our master-carpenter arrived just an hour ago, and I used the opportunity to squeeze some of these dainties out of your dragon. She had stinted me of these delicacies in a really cruel way."

Playfully, Éomer rapped his knuckles on Erchirion's skull. "I'm sure you, scoundrel that you are, would have eaten me out of hall and realm had Frithuswith not kept an eye on you, and on my provisions."

He sat down at his friend's side, motioning to the carpenter to take a seat again and soon Éothain appeared with an ample supply of ale, followed a little later by Frithuswith with a second tray of food. Placing it on the table, she inquired after Winfrid.

"They took him down to Underharrow where he stays in the house of the healer. They think that there's nothing broken, but he has a concussion and they thought it better not to let him travel all the way to Edoras." He took a swig of ale. "He'll probably take one more sennight to heal, and his horse, too."

The housekeeper nodded. "I'll go up there tomorrow to have a look at them and take some clothes up to the boy."

Éomer turned to Éothain. "Delegate two guards to accompany Frithuswith to Underharrow and make sure that a courier is going to ride to Dol Amroth first light tomorrow morning."

The captain nodded. "Hereward will be ready any time. Eáldread has finished the last papers and only needs your signature, so if you want to send him tonight..."

Éomer shook his head. "No, we have even less moonlight than last time and there has already been frost on the more exposed parts of the road. He'd better start tomorrow morning." He did not tell anyone that his primary reason to delay until the next morning was a small wooden box on the desk in his study that he wanted to finish polishing before sending it to his betrothed.

Smiling he turned to the old carpenter. "So you have finished your task and done Gondor proud, Master Calimab, and I thank you for your work. I hope everything went smoothly and you found life in the Mark to your liking."

"Oh, things certainly went just fine, even if I lost my best journeyman in Beaccotlif."

"You did what?" Éomer was shocked. "What happened to him?"

Calimab grinned. "It's rather: who happened to him. He and I were put up with the local cartwright's widow. Ah well, she is a widow no more and Beaccotlif has a new carpenter and cartwright. That's why I stayed for so long, I had wanted to stay for the wedding and draw some sketches. The princess asked me to draw things and scenes I thought typical of Rohan for her." Calimab fidgeted with a quite larger folder, made of polished leather. "So if you are sending a courier down to Dol Amroth, would you be so kind as to have him take this folder too? I would rather like to stay some more days in Edoras, and if you would allow me to draw sketches of the carvings of Meduseld, I would really count myself honoured."

Erchirion motioned somewhat uncoordinated with his mug. "You should see his sketches, Éomer. He's a mage with a silver point." Taking the folder out of the old man's hands, he put it in front of Éomer and opened it.

The first sketch showed two children, a little girl leaning sleeping against a slightly older boy, who wide-eyed watched something that most visibly held all his interest, but nevertheless his arms encircled the sleeping girl protectively. The second mapped different sketches of horses in motion, while the third displayed a lad in festive attire who led a mare, while the mare's foal frolicked beside her.

Éomer smiled, as the following sketch showed Herelufu, Erkenbrand's young daughter, her round, friendly face in an open smile. Erkenbrand himself, an impressive tankard in his hand was the next, and then came a very detailed drawing of the béowbur at Beaccotlif. Each picture was admired by the bystanders, and the carpenter's face became flushed with excitement though he struggled to keep his face expressionless.

When he turned the parchment to look at the next drawing, Éomer's breath caught. There he was himself, carrying the browpiece of the granary, his face concentrated, his gaze aimed at something outside the picture. Éomer remembered he had been looking at the half-finished granary, remembered the weight of the beam, the sun, the sound... And he felt a slight shudder at the experience of seeing himself through another person's eyes. But the true shock waited for him when he uncovered the next sketch.

It showed himself after Erce's ritual. With closed eyes, his face turned up enraptured towards the sun, his hands pressing the basket against his chest, while his shoulders leaned against the browpiece of the béowbur. Something like an echo of the incredible feeling of safety, of being anchored body and soul shot through him, followed by the frightening realisation that it had not only been Calimab, who had seen him like that.

With rising embarrassment Éomer noticed that the praising remarks around him had died down, as everybody gazed at the sketch in awed silence. And then Frithuswith reached out, her hand trailing softly along the edges of the vellum. A jolt of worry shot through him as he saw her hand tremble, and when he turned to address her, she suddenly swivelled round and left the hall with fast steps. Puzzled the crowd around the table looked after her, and having exchanged a worried glance with Éothain, Éomer made to follow her.

**ooo**

He found her leaning against the corridor wall, her eyes closed, and softly laying a hand on her shoulder, he addressed her. "Frithuswith, come, I'll take you to your room."

Wordlessly she nodded and passing an arm around her shoulder, he led her on, ordering the gaping servant that crossed their way to fetch some tea to the housekeeper's chamber. Her room near the royal quarters was entirely different from the sparsely furnished nook near the kitchens, and when Éomer opened the door, the light of the westering sun shining through the two crown glass windows was drawing a picture of living light on the well polished tiles of the floor. Brightly coloured hangings adorned the walls and in front of the rather large bed lay a carpet made of deer-hide, while sheepskin rugs were placed near a well-worked large wicker chair close to one of the windows and beside the large engraved chest on the wall opposite of the bed.

"Do you want to lay down?" Her paleness worried him, and he thought she needed to, but she shook her head. Leading her to the wicker chair instead, he made her sit down and then fetched the blanket from her bed and put it across her knees, before pulling up one of the three-legged stools to sit next to her. Her face was pale and her eyes were closed and he realised that he never had seen her looking that old and feeble. In all the years it had never occurred to him to address her with the respectful title reserved for an old woman, ealder modor, for she had been Frithuswith, hearth fire of Meduseld, ageless and strong. Tenderly the back of his hand stroked her pale cheek. "Frithuswith, what is it? Please, tell me what I can do to help you."

She opened her eyes and he saw that they brimmed with unshed tears. Nevertheless, she tried to smile. "Just forget it Éomer. You shouldn't fuss like that over an old biddy like me. Give me a moment and I'll be fine."

"Anything you want, but won't you tell me what ails you?" He took her hands in his, alarmed at the coldness of her skin.

She stubbornly shook her head.

Rubbing her hands gently, he made another attempt. "Frithuswith, we were looking at those drawings when you suddenly left. Is there anything wrong with them? Do you feel offended? Is..." He stopped mid-sentence, as her breast suddenly heaved, and with a slight quivering of her chin, her tears started to flow.

"No, boy, no. I'm not offended, no way. The drawings are wonderful, so true, so alive." She sat for a while, crying silently, while the king held her hands, feeling how slowly the warmth crept back into them. Finally she swallowed, and tugging her hands out of his, she pulled a handkerchief out of her apron, blew her nose and gave him a wobbly smile. "I never have cried for him all these months, Éomer, I just couldn't. As if by crying for him, I would admit that he was dead. And when I saw those pictures... " She swallowed, her eyes filling with tears again. "I just thought how nice it would be to have such a drawing of Théodred."

Once the words were out, it seemed as if they had opened a sluice, and her tears, repressed for months, started to flow free. He pulled her near, and laying her head against his shoulders, she wept, her body shuddering with the fierceness of her sobs. When her tears finally subsided, she remained leaning exhausted against him, but when a knock at the door announced the servant with the tea, she at once straightened up, desperately trying to dry her face.

"Stay." Kissing her forehead, Éomer rose and went to answer the door, taking the tray through the half-opened door, thus making sure the servant would not get a glimpse at Frithuswith.

When he placed the tray on the small table beside her and filled the mug for her, a true smile stole into her tear-streaked features. "What a pity you robbed her of such a brilliant piece of gossip."

He grinned. "Drink your tea, and then you will lay down and rest. And don't gainsay me. This is a regal order."

She snorted, but she drank in little sips, and putting back the mug, she nodded her agreement. "Perhaps you are right, boy. I feel exhausted and I think some rest will do me good." And then the old mischief was back in her eyes. "But don't you insist on tucking me in. I'm not young enough for it any more and not old enough for it yet." Rising, she shove the blanket at him. "Place it on the bed again, and then be gone."

He obeyed, spreading the woollen coverlet over the sheets, but when he turned to make for the door, their eyes met. "Don't you worry, boy, I will be fine. I won't say that I'm sorry that I incommoded you, as I feel that tearing up was long due, and there is no one else in this dratted den against whose shoulder I would have minded less losing my composure."

**ooo**

The three men were still sitting in the hall, waiting for his return, though Master Calimab had put away his drawings in the leather folder in the meantime. Their expression was uneasy and worried when he sat down at the bench and pulled the folder close.

"And?" Éothain's eyebrows nearly reached his hairline.

Éomer shrugged. "Théodred."

His friend grunted. "She's bottled it up for much too long, that old dragon. Wish I could help her."

Éomer nodded. "Me too." Flipping the folder open, he perused the sketches again, the houses, trees, horses... And again he felt a shudder down his back at seeing his own face caught in that moment of deepest emotion. He put the picture next to the one of the béowbur, only to realise the impossibility of his thoughts. Sighing he pushed the folder away.

"My Lord King?" Looking up, he found Calimab gazing at him with visible concern. "Is there anything in my work that offends you or the lady, anything that causes you unease?"

Éomer shook his head. "No, Master Calimab, nothing." He gave the old carpenter a half smile. "Save perhaps that they are too live-like to let the heart rest at ease."

"Oh, come on now!" Erchirion's voice was impatient and galled. "Don't piss down my back and tell me it's raining! What's wrong with Frithuswith? And what was that about Théodred."

Éomer hesitated, but finally he spoke. "You know she brought up Théodred when Queen Elfhild died in childbed. Even was his wet nurse." With a frown, he pulled the opened folder close again. "She would like to have such a picture of Théodred." Eyeing the carpenter without much hope, he added: "For a moment I thought that as you had sketched and constructed the béowbur with nothing but Erchirion's description, something like that could be done with a likeness of Théodred. But I deem there is much difference in drawing a building and a face."

The grey beard nodded. "As much as there is in describing them. With a face a good artist does not only map the features of a person but also points out the characteristics of that person's personality."

Reaching for the sketches, he selected the ones of Erkenbrand and his daughter and put them side by side, and Éomer understood what he meant. There was the grim warrior, hardened in countless battles, Lord of Westfold, his face weather-beaten and scared and beside him his daughter's face, still showing traces of the child she had been not too long ago, but in both faces, as different as they were, was the same openness, the same friendly self-assuredness and reliability.

Éomer nodded. "Even if we could describe Théoden to you, we could not see him with your eyes."

Erchirion scratched his beard, which had become an impressive field of dark chestnut-coloured hair during his weeks in Rohan. "Can't we find someone who resembles Théodred? I mean, there are certain features characteristic for the Rohirrim, couldn't you... "

But Calimab shook his head vehemently. "No, Prince Erchirion, especially not as the lady is that much attached to the late prince. It would not work. But there might be another solution." He hesitated slightly, as if he was not certain about his own statement, but then he continued. "I actually did sketch Prince Théodred once, some twenty years ago."

"What?" All three of them stared at him, having exclaimed in unison.

The old Gondorean nodded. "I was up in Lossarnach to buy timber, and one of the most wealthy wood-land owners up there is Lord Guilin, Dowager Queen Morwen's son-in law. So when I was sitting in the yard, waiting for him to receive me, I took some sketches of several children playing there. And while I was at it, Prince Théodred and Lord Boromir of Gondor rode into the yard and spoke to me, and later showed my drawings to Queen Morwen, who then asked me to draw her grandson for her."

Éothain wagged his head, grimacing. "If only even half of the gossip concerning Frithuswith and Queen Morwen is true, it would not be a good idea to ride to Lossarnach and ask her for Théodred's picture."

Calimab cleared his voice."To tell the truth, there is a second sketch I drew on behalf of Lord Boromir."

"Boromir had a picture of Théodred?" Erchirion looked totally incredulous.

Éomer shrugged. "Why not? As far as I know they were close friends. And given the chance... " He smirked at Erchirion. "How do you know that I won't talk behind your back to Master Calimab to do your portrait?"

Éothain snorted with laughter, but Imrahil's son tried to display an offended air, much to the old carpenter's amusement.

"Well," Éomer took up the topic again, "we do not know if the picture still exists, but if it does, Faramir would know about it. I'll write to him at once, asking him to give me that sketch, and if all goes well, we can have it here in ten day's time."

"Ah, well..." Calimab stretched his arms, looking pointedly at his fingers. "It might just be that said drawing might not be entirely fit as a present to a lady."

"Éomer frowned. "Why not? Does it show anything indecent?"

Calimab shook his head, but high on his cheekbones two red spots betrayed his embarrassment. "No, certainly not." He hesitated. "It shows the prince and his stallion, a black, vicious animal that was really hard to sketch as it would not stand still for a minute."

"Must have been Swearthóf," Éomer remarked to Éothain, who nodded knowingly, his face in a grimace of disgust. Turning with a grin to Erchirion, Éomer explained: "That stallion was the worst-tempered horse that has ever been foaled in the Riddermark, a demon in the shape of a horse, but absolutely loyal to Théodred."

Éothain chuckled. "Compared with that bastard Firefoot is a new born lamb."

"I see." With a big grin, Imrahil's son put his large, beefy hand on the carpenter's shoulder. "I think your sketch will just do fine. A strapping young man and a bad tempered horse, what could be more typical to display the characteristics of a prince of the Mark?"

The carpenter's face was now definitely glowing with embarrassment. "My lord, it's the garment. I mean..." He stopped, not knowing how to proceed.

And then it dawned on Éomer. One glance at Erchirion, who sat opposite him showed him that his friend's thoughts were following the same trail.

"You think... ?" Erchirion's voice wobbled with suppressed mirth, and when Éomer nodded, he simply let himself fall flat on the table, howling with laughter.

"What has got into him?" Éothain looked irritated.

Éomer shot him a wry grin. "Probably Hengest Giefu."

Éothain frowned. "I can't see, what is funny about that." Turning to Calimab, the captain of the royal guard asked bluntly: "So you mean the picture is not suitable for Frithuswith because the prince is naked, or what?"

"He is not naked, Sir." Calimab's face looked like a cooked lobster by now.

Éothain shrugged. "Well, if he is not naked, it is not Hengest Giefu. And anyway that would make no sense, as the prince can't be a member of his own guard."

"Master Calimab," addressing the carpenter Éomer tried to make sense of the old Gondorean's remarks and embarrassment. "Do you think that the Prince is in any way indecent in your sketch?"

Calimab shook his head. "No, or I would not have sketched him."

Erchirion lifted his head: "Or does he do anything indecent, especially to his horse?"

The remark earned him a killing glance from Éothain. "He was riding a stallion, you sót. Blimey, not even totally pissed would any Rohir have such a dirty fantasy!"

"Could you two idiots just stop?" Éomer definitely felt sympathetic for the old craftsman. "I'm trying to get a present for Frithuswith, and your jibes are not really helpful."

Immediately they sobered up, and Éomer once more turned to Calimab. "Please, what is it that makes you think the sketch would be unfit for Frithuswith?"

The old man cleared his throat again. "My Lord King, if you want to send to Prince Faramir for it, and if it still exists, and if the prince sees it fit to send it to you, you will see it and be able to judge for yourself. Anyway, if you should agree with my opinion, it would still be helpful to have it as I could sketch a new portrait based on it. There is nothing wrong with the sketch, I assure you. But you said the lady fostered Prince Théodred, didn't you?"

Éomer nodded. "Yes, and he certainly took the place of a son in her heart."

The old carpenter now looked at him directly, and turning his hands palm-up on the table, he added: "Well, this likeness, how shall I put it... It is a picture the prince would have rather given to his sweetheart than to his mother."

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><p><strong>annotations:<strong>

**sót:** (Rohirric/Old English) dolt

**sweart:** (Rohirric/Old English) black/evil I just could not resist the double meaning of this word, and I can well imagine the Eorlingas to have a similar kind of humour.

**hóf:** (Rohirric/Old English) hoof


	16. Chapter 16

Even though Mother's Day is fast approaching and leaving her with a lot of work, **sep12 **has made time to beta the next chapter and thus enabled me to give you all a quite special Mother's Day present.;-DD **Thank you sep12!**

And thanks also to all of you who are still reading and especially to those who are reviewing. You are really making my day. :-)

So here finally comes the chapter for all those readers who complained about too little romance, not enough Lothíriel,and even less Éomer and I don't know what else in the last chapters. Take it, read it, and enjoy. ;-) But don't complain about too much realism and steam afterwards. (Really folks: A hunk of a man in the bloom of testosterone, being for three months without "female company"... What do you expect him to do?)

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><p><strong>Chapter 16<strong>

Four days later, standing on the terrace of Meduseld, Éomer saw Cena ride into Edoras at sundown, a packhorse with two wicker-baskets tied to its sides in tow. He found it most difficult to suppress the urge to simply run down the stairs to meet the courier and only the realisation of the door wardens, staring at his back with anticipation, made him stop. Instead he turned, and entering the hall, he ordered a servant to ready some refreshment for the errand rider.

It seemed ages till Cena made his appearance in the hall, quite a bunch of letters and scrolls in his hands, followed by two of the stable lads, carrying the baskets. He delivered the missives to his king, lowering his head respectfully, yet Éomer could not but notice the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Scanning the documents, Éomer at once noticed the one addressed in Lothíriel's distinct hand. Ignoring the more or less open grins of the people around him, he tucked the letter away in his tunic and handed the others to Lord Eáldread, who had turned up at his elbow.

The lads had put down the baskets in the meantime, but made no move to leave, curious what uncommon freight they may held. It was Frithuswith who finally released them and the other prying members of the royal household by ordering the baskets to be opened. The inside of the containers was lined with oil-cloth and padded with straw, and only when they had removed the top layer, the content of the baskets was revealed: the promised oranges, packed carefully and giving off a faint aroma of sweet freshness.

Intrigued, Éomer stepped closer and took up one of the fruit. It filled his hand in a quite delightful manner, its firm roundness fitting snugly in the hollow of his palm, and like a bolt out of the blue there was an image before his inner eye of his hand cupping a different roundness, alike firm and perfumed. He swallowed, feeling his body's reaction. He had to get out of the hall before he ended up embarrassing himself.

Keeping the fruit in his hand, he turned to Frithuswith. "Check how many oranges there are, and have them distributed as fair as possible to the children of Edoras."

The housekeeper smiled, motioning the lads over to one of the long tables, and soon they were unpacking and counting, while Cena sat at the far end, gobbling down a large fill of cold roast and talking in between mouthfuls to a group of admiring serving girls, asking him for all the strange wonders of Dol Amroth. Lord Eáldread strode off to his office, eager to peruse what obviously were the latest additions to the wedding contract, and being for once out of the people's focus, Éomer slipped away to his rooms, feeling the weight of the rather thick letter under his tunic with elatedness.

Having reached his study, he took it out, drinking in the letters on the envelop. _His!_ In a sudden motion he swivelled round and shot home the bolt of the door. Not even Frithuswith was going to disturb him while reading this letter! _His! _Sitting down at his desk, he put down the letter, suddenly realising that probably at the same time she would hold his presents in hands. _Do_ _you really know how to carve?_What would she say now, finding her tokens on top of the lid? Was she already wearing the necklace? His eyes never left the letter in front of him, and turning it, he broke the seal.

Something small slipped out of it, falling into his lap, and lifting it, he recognised it for a dried stalk of sea-lavender, the leaves having turned into a greyish shade of green, but the blossom itself still brilliant in its hue of violet and white. Smiling he put it aside. The letter itself consisted of two pages, written on closely, but there was a second, sightly smaller but very thick letter inside, folded and sealed. Frowning he sat it aside and started to read the one he had already opened.

_Dearest Éomer,_

_This is my second attempt to write you, to sort out my thoughts and feelings in a meaningful way. I have been hesitating to send you what I wrote down the very evening I got your second letter, but then: Did not you write me that a word once uttered cannot be taken back? And would it not befit a bold pirate to stand up to any challenge? I decided to send that first letter, but I warn you. You complained about having problems "behaving in a civil way" reading my last letter. And though I have to admit I liked the image it provoked before my inner eye exceedingly, I rather advise you to read it in private. I put it separately and even sealed it, not to tempt you, should you have opened the letter you are reading now in public._

_Mother thinks that we will be able to celebrate Mettare together with Father in Minas Tirith as Sídhríl is due any time now. I hope I will have her patience and endurance when I am with child, and I have to admit that I would prefer those last weeks of my pregnancy not be in summer. Though I do not know how hot it can get in Edoras. Erchirion told me that it was windy when he attended Théoden King's funeral, but I suppose he did not care about the weather._

_Did you know that Frithuswith wrote me a letter? That is, she asked Lord Elfhelm's wife to write it for her, obviously not trusting the scribes at Meduseld. I am very proud that I was able to understand nearly all of it. _

His gaze scanned the rest of the page. It held news from Dol Amroth, the family, their plans for their stay in Minas Tirith. The second page seemed to give attention to political matters, the last chapter informing in detail about Elphir's plans concerning the roads. Doubtlessly those were all things he would read with great interest, but not just now. Not with that second letter waiting there for him, not with her warning.

Reaching for it, he weighed it in his hand. By the weight of it there were more page than just one, many more. She certainly knew how to tempt him. Smiling with pleasant anticipation, he broke the seal, and unfolding the letter, he found it consisted of six pages.

_Éomer, Beloved,_

_Where shall I start ? Two letters... and what letters! I am so torn, so excited, so thrilled to read them, and on the other hand I feel like throwing back my head, howling like a lonely wolf. To know what you feel, what you want, and not to be near you!_

_I was so happy when your letter arrived, the one you wrote being into your cups, as it was so delightful, so sweet and wholehearted, and I wished to simply hold you and thank you for all your sweetness and consideration. I felt so stupid about my fears of losing control, depending on someone else, submitting to a husband, when seeing the vigour with which you pushed aside all obstacles set by fear, morals and propriety and fully opened your heart and soul to me. I smiled at your confession about the impossibility to take back spoken words, and I wished I could kiss you for it; softly, very softly and just snuggle close to you to be held._

_And then your second letter came, and I nearly forgot to breathe. Have I really been that bold? I have to admit you caught what I thought and felt, though. You answered all I had wanted to ask without me having uttered the questions. To know that you understand me made me feel so close to you, made you present, made me hear your voice, whispering the words._

_You banter in your letter as did I in mine. I love it so much, that clever game of words and wits, hiding and uncovering secret thoughts and emotions, and yet I know I play with fire, and the danger to get burnt makes my blood throb with excitement. And it's not only me who is bold. You say that I am to set the pace. But it is you who makes me want to follow suit, as you step into this bold dance, setting the rhythm and speed. A dance it may be, but it is a dance with swords, fast, demanding and dangerous. And I, not knowing the steps and yet knowing the aim of that dance, follow that rhythm with relish, safe in your love and care._

_Éomer, you say that you imagine what I write, and the thought that you do thrills me as it makes me feel like a mage, able to give you dreams. But while I write, I feel like I am in the scene I describe to you, imagine your touch, your smell, and then though I wield power, I grow weak, melting under your imagined caress._

_You made me laugh with your descriptions of a certain horselord gaping at my legs on Tol Cobas. I have to admit that I had not thought of anything like that, as it is my usual outfit when I go sailing with my brothers, and it is practical and convenient. Had I known about your interest at that moment, it would have embarrassed me immeasurably._

_You ask me if I had been interested in you before. The answer depends on the way you define "interested". I certainly had no intention to marry you. But I was interested in you, intrigued, well before you arrived at Dol Amroth. Father had spoken so favourably of you, and Erchirion had sung your praise at every opportunity, until Amrothos threatened to throttle him should he as much as utter your name again over one of the family meals. Oh, and certainly there had been talk amongst the serving women; about the Rohirrim in general and their king in particular. I will not repeat details in this letter, but I have the feeling that even you "barbaric warriors" would have found it difficult to live up to some of the women's expectations, as they were quite bizarre and seemed to rather fit in with the horses than with the riders._

_Well, and then I saw you at that feast and what I felt was a mixture of pity and admiration. It was strange in a fascinating way, a feeling that you did not belong there, into the crowded hall, the noise, the mixture of perfumes, the throngs of the nobles... Not that there was anything uncouth or boorish in your appearance and manners. No, you appeared every inch the king you are, and yet I could not but pity you, for you seemed to me like some magnificent wild thing, caught in the traps of inferior hunters, a lion amongst hyaenas. _

_And I simply wished I could set you free, push open the doors with both hands and show you the way to the shore to run free. Perhaps it was only that I myself felt trapped in the snares of diplomacy which made me feel so strongly for you, but I watched you out of the corners of my eyes as long as the feast lasted, seeing your boredom, your anger, your disgust. And though I felt sorry for you, watching you secretly gave me strength to keep the polite facade of the princess. You felt the same, and you, despite your schooled politeness, did not bother to let these simpering nobles now and then behold a flash of the predator's fangs. _

_And as for that headscarf that Amrothos mentioned to you: I had planned to give it to you even before I had seen you, as a sign of my personal thank for your and your people's valour and dedication. We had planned to take you sailing the very moment it had become clear that you would come to Dol Amroth for negotiations after your sister's wedding, and when Sídhríl suggested to have some clothes fit for such a trip made for you, I at once had the idea to give you that special cloth for a headscarf._

_There was no hidden agenda in my thoughts and actions, no plans or even dreams to become your wife. I admit that there was talk about a union between Dol Amroth and Rohan, but I felt rather reluctant than eager, as it did not only mean to leave the sea behind. It was the politically motivated plan of Dol Amroth's council that made me furious, even if Father assured me that he had no plans to marry me off and would never arrange my marriage without my assent._

_Your own behaviour made me forget about all these things, as you never uttered one of the worn out compliments men normally bestow on me, did not try to flirt, but fitted in so perfectly with the general atmosphere, simply treating me for what I was: your friends' sister. You made me forget that you were a stranger to me, and when I claimed you as a member of the family it just seemed to me the most natural thing._

_The outings with my brothers have always been an escape from the role and duty that sometimes seem to weigh me down: the perfect daughter, princess of the realm, diplomat, Gondorean noble woman. I know how to fulfil these demands, and I believe that they are put on me rightly, a payment for the advantages and benefits my position provides me with. But I have always been thankful for the moments of unchecked freedom I enjoyed in the company of my brothers. And as they accepted you into our wild and woolly private circle I did too._

_But then during the meal on Tol Cobas I noticed that you looked at me. Looked at me in a way I could not fathom: open, direct, friendly, but yet there seemed to be something hidden under the surface I could not name. _

_But that was after I had fallen into your lap, as you put it. That fall had not been intended, Éomer, and it was only much later that it dawned on me that probably I had caused confusion. At that moment it was just innocent fun. I did not realise one moment how awkward it might have been for you to suddenly have a woman fall across your body, it just felt natural. I was totally at ease, and all my focus was on that dratted peach._

_I suppose the thought that I might have incommoded you did not occur to me prior to Amrothos' idiotic comment about the figs, and I have to admit that it was shame and cowardice that made me take the grill and leave. It was the first moment I realised that I wanted you to see me as a woman and not only as another member of the gang._

_And yet, when you sought me out and spoke to me, all awkwardness was gone. It was so good to talk to you, to be talked to by you, to feel accepted, cherished. At that moment there was nothing left of the strange enticement I had felt just a moment before, I only felt safe in your friendliness. _

_I still wonder how wide I opened my heart to you, how deep I let you look into the secrets of my soul that moment, but I never doubted myself when I did. I did not think, I just knew I could trust you. And did not you open up to me likewise? _

_It was towards the end of our conversation, after Amrothos had come to tell us to get ready for sailing, that I realised that once we had left the island there might never be a chance like that again, to communicate just as two human beings in need of care and company, free from all the shackles of state and duty. And I wanted that moment to last, wanted you to remember it, and therefore I asked you to accompany me to the western shore, only to have the very moment I tried to steal from fate spoilt by the appearance of that scum Mardil!_

_There was such a whirl of emotions, such hatred, and suddenly I was loath with myself that I had made you follow me up there. I hated myself for wanting to be with you, for trusting you, a man, a stranger, and I wanted to shock and hurt you with my remarks, wanted you to recoil, thus affirming my misgivings and rage. _

_And you stood there and simply did not understand what I had meant to be outrageous! Thinking about it now makes me smile, but that day I felt as if you had opened a window in the wall that had closed me in, giving me a totally new view on things. The idea that a man seducing innocents was a coward as he only lay with virgins because they were not able to compare his performance with those of other men was so incredible... and yet so down to earth, so plausible. It then dawned on me how different not only our cultures were, but also the way we saw things. And that thought thrilled me, as it made me realise that despite all your reliability you would remain a challenge as I could not predict your reactions._

_And then came the cursed moment to face Mardil. How I wished him dead! But suddenly, for a split second I saw you out of the corners of my eyes, and my heart stopped. I felt like I had stepped into some myth, some legend of the First Age, for there you stood, tall, strong, your fists clenched and your face like thunder. And it was like I beheld the god of wrath, and all of a sudden a thought flitted through my mind: Kill my foe and I will be yours._

_I was shocked beyond description at my own thoughts, and yet they held a thrill that sped up my pulse and made me reckless and daring. Not that much towards you, but towards any possible danger, as I felt whatever would happen, my life would never be the same. There was no fear that we might capsize, even founder, I did not care. I wanted to kill him and I wanted to have you at my side when it happened._

_I risked your life, and you were not even aware of it. I flung you into situations you could not judge, and you trusted me. You did not ask, did not doubt, you acted. Warrior, sailor, king and man in one and I could not help admiring you and was loath because of that at the same time. And then you bound my cut wrist with your headscarf and tied it with the laces of your shirt, and there I was, wearing the colours of Rohan, like you had claimed me for your own, and it made me feel dizzy with desire._

_I don't know if you ever realised, as there was little other material to bind the wound with, and I at once scolded myself for my unduly thoughts. But then, when I had spied the surf of Aeglir Caragon ahead, and in my desperate wish to see Mardil die, prayed to Osse, swearing that I did not mind if I drowned as long as that scum went down with me, you suddenly stood behind me, your face an unreadable mask, as if you would challenge Osse himself should he dare and claim me. This thought frightened me more than the prospect of drowning, as I realised I wanted it to be like that, wanted to feel you, like I had felt you that terrible moment outboards, holding me, supporting me, and I wished to rely on you as I had done then._

_I was able to hold down all this turmoil as long as there was the need to act, but on our way back to Dol Amroth I could not stop thinking about it, and as much as I tried to cast these thoughts out, everything in my mind revolved around you and my wish to be yours. And all the time I was afraid you would be able to see through me, feel my unseemly desire, for unseemly I judged it then. I suppose Amrothos noticed my unease, perhaps, being the womaniser he is, he had realised even earlier than I myself that I was about to "fall" and therefore had pestered you so much._

_I was so ashamed when you found me on the battlement and told me that you had spoken to Father, because I thought I had been so obvious. And only when you explained yourself to me, it dawned on me that we both felt the same, that you were right that trust was the headstone of any marriage, and yet I found it impossible to accept the feelings that had assaulted me throughout the day._

_You may call it childish, but I wanted to pay you back for making me feel so much drawn to you, so insecure, though I knew you never intended to, and therefore I made you drink that arrack. And that is the only thing I should truly be ashamed off, that I so much enjoyed to see you choke on it. To see you gasp was so hilarious... and then, overjoyed with my prank, I took up your challenge to drink the rest. I don't know what made me turn the cup, but I will never forget how your eyes darkened, your nostrils flared, and how rejoicing in the glory of my power I realised that the same_ _power weakened me and causes my heart beat in my throat._

_We only had two more days, and so little time to ourselves. I enjoyed every moment, our conversation, our banter, your smile, and I wished you would never have to leave. I wormed every possible bit of information about you out of the servants, even sneaked into your room when you were closeted in council, touching your things and leaving my scent on your pillow. But I would have died of embarrassment had anybody espied me._

_And then came the delegation of the councillors, tearing apart all the fantastic dreams of heroes and myths, laughter and freedom, their words drying up my joy and casting a grey veil over my heart. And it was at that moment I decided to fight for my feelings for you, for this contradictory whirl of emotions that made me feel hot and cold at the same time, for the look in your eyes that could give me peace and utter excitement, for the touch of your hands, strong, warm and trustworthy, a warrior's hands and yet so gentle, so gentle and nevertheless leaving a burning trail on my skin. I would not let them take that away from me. _

_I was not afraid that you would deem me wanton, I trusted you, but I was not sure if you would comply with my wish, as it seemed to contradict anything that I myself thought befitting for a maiden of rank, but I could not help it. I wanted to have you for one moment entirely to myself, one moment to remember over the long months of waiting, but I also wanted to see your eyes darken again. And then I failed miserably, because I could not bear your eyes on me, as if your gaze would reach into my very soul and discover all the contradictory thoughts and desires._

_But what I did then, what you made me do, what we did, kindled a fire that has burned inside me ever since, and each of your letters fuels it, and as fire gives light and warmth but also the peril to get burnt, your words give me care and love and unknown delight, painful beyond anything I have ever felt before._

_It drives me insane! I who always have hated nothing more than the mere idea of submission, who cringed at the thought of giving control over myself to a husband one day... I know now that were you here, I would not care about pride and leadership any more, I would give myself to you without reserve. And it nearly frightens me to realise that I would not only be unable to resist you, but I would relish in the idea to be totally in your power._

_And I write this without fear, for I know that you would not ask submission from me. In the shade of the old plane I took but half a step into the ancient dance of passion and yet I have a premonition that giving myself to you I would not call forth the wish in you to master me but to give yourself to me as completely and freely as I would surrender to you, and losing ourselves we would find one another._

_I love you more than I can say, and I long to be yours._

_Lothíriel_

He never knew when his hand has reached down for the laces of his breeches, groping desperately, encircling his throbbing flesh.

_I long to be yours... her enraptured face, her lips slightly opened, swollen from the fierceness of his kiss... _

_I would freely surrender to you... her voice, coarse, breathless whispering...her pelvis grinding against him... _

_hold me... I'm yours... painful delight... her head thrown back, her fingernails digging into his flesh, fire consuming his loins... _

_you kindled a fire inside me... I want you entirely… entirely... _

_I want to see your eyes darken... those slate-grey orbs, unseeing, lost in passion… _

_the touch of your hands... the soft firmness of her breasts against his palm … _

_a trail of fire on my skin... the smell of her skin, her pulse beating under his lips... _

_I left my scent on your pillow... stay... stay there... my love... _

_I want you to claim me... I will! I will... Lothíriel!_

He shuddered, and suppressing a groan, spilled over his fingers.

_Your letters... Lothíriel... _

_so thrilled to read them... Lothíriel... _

_I feel like throwing back my head, howling like a lonely wolf._

**ooo**

The next morning the white sheet on the flanks of the mountain reached well into the valley. Winter had finally come.


	17. Chapter 17

Thanks to all of you for reading, reviewing, subscribing, favouriting and lurking. You really make my day. And a very special thanks to **sep12 ** for her help with one more muddled up chapter. Hopefully till the end of the story I will have understood the difference between infinitive and gerund! :-D

**So here's to the Rohirric women!** (And certainly as well to all their modern sisters and soulmates. ;-)) Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 17<strong>

Éomer paced the rooms of the royal quarters. Except for the ones he used - his study, his bedroom and the adjoining dressing room - they were still undergoing refurbishment. The nursery, the queen's solar (once Éowyn's room) and what had been his former room opposite Éowyn's at the end of the corridor had all been stripped of their hangings and rugs as well as most of their furniture. The floors had been scrubbed, the wood of the walls, doors and window frames polished and what furniture remained had been overhauled. Still though, everything looked orderless and uncomfortable with the walls bare and everything re-arranged as to give the workmen and servants better access.

The nursery held nothing but the old, richly carved cradle the future kings of the Mark had been sleeping in for centuries, the wooden frame being as old as the Golden Hall itself. His fingers slid over the polished wood._ In case the queen proved barren..._ What must she have thought and felt being confronted with that sentence? Trying to get the unbidden thought out of his head, he moved over to the solar.

Being the corner room, it had windows to the south and the west, granting it sufficient light for most of the day. Frithuswith thought of it as some kind of workroom for the queen and her ladies to do weaving and needlework and therefore had seen to it that comfortable benches were lining the walls close to the windows. The women were already busy weaving the cloth for the cushions they planned to put on them, eager to make the room as cosy as possible. He had not dared to point out to them that he was not sure if Lothíriel was interested in sewing or the like at all. Erchirion had told Gytha she was perfect in embroidery... but did she really like it? The only time he had seen her using a needle had been on Tol Cobas, when she had dug the spikes of that dratted urchin out of his soles. Thinking of his sister, he could not well imagine a woman that skilled with bow and horse to sit indoors, doing fancywork. But he did not know, and so he had stayed silent. He sighed. There were still so many things he wanted to find out about her.

Rounding the large table, Éomer made for the door that led out into the garden. A cold gust caught his hair as he opened the door, and for a split second he even thought about fetching his cloak. The end of November was nearing, and though it was not more than late afternoon, the sun no longer held much power and warmth. He sniffed the air; over the layer of peat smoke that rose from the houses of Edoras it definitely smelt of snow. Pulling a face, he stepped out into the garden. Hereward would have to come home the long way via Minas Tirith if it started to snow with a gale like that.

And any letter he wrote during the next month would take much longer to reach Lothíriel as long as she stayed in Dol Amroth. Even if the roads stayed open a rider would need at least four days to reach Gondor's capital, and six more to reach Dol Amroth, the roads being good but narrow and steep in many places; but then he could not imagine that there would be much traffic on the road over the winter. It was faster by ship, at least during the summer months and with good wind, but were they sailing regularly in winter? Something else he regretted not knowing.

Stepping out into the small garden, he felt a bit subdued comparing it to Imrahil's garden at Dol Amroth with its abundance of jasmine and bougainvilleas, old trees and running water. The lay of the garden of Meduseld followed the slope of the hill, the space closest to its top being reserved for all kinds of herbs in neatly arranged beds. That had been Éowyn's domain and main interest, though she had liked the lower slopes with their terraced flowerbeds, shrubs and an immense range of all kinds of roses a lot. Most of them Thengel had ordered to be brought form Lossarnach to please Queen Morwen, and though they had braided quite a bit during the last decades, the bowers and pergolas in the nooks were most beautiful in their wild abundance of blossoms in summer. There was no use denying it: the garden certainly did not compare to the splendid vegetation of the Falas. But it had its own beauty. And if she wanted anything to be changed that certainly could be arranged.

Following the winding path that led downhill in many turns and steps of worked stones, he reached the wall that encircled the garden, and passing through the gate, he stepped out into the cobbled street that separated the grounds of Meduseld from the town of Edoras.

There were few people in the street, due to the inclement wind that caused the chill to creep even through several layers of clothing. He felt uneasy and decided that a walk would do him good. It was too late for any proper ride before dinner, and he hated the fuss they made about him taking a guard with him as soon as he left Edoras. At least that might lessen once they had produced an heir of Eorl's House. He grinned, remembering her last letter. Any child that would come of their union certainly would not suffer from poor health due to a lack of passion on his parents' side.

After a few minutes of vigorous walking, he realised that without noticing it, his feet had carried him to the lane Éothain's house was situated. He hesitated. His friend was off duty and although a nice chat with Éothain probably would improve his mood, should he really intrude into his friend's family life, given the little time Éothain had had lately to spend with his wife and children? But then, he was just a few yards away from the beautifully carved archway that framed the gate to Éothain's premises and most certainly his friend would be miffed if he passed by and did not drop in.

He found his friend sitting near the banked up hearth fire, carving something that looked suspiciously like a horse under the scrutinising gaze of his son, a little flax-head of six, who was sitting beside him. Seeing Éomer approach, Éothain made to stand, but Éomer waved him down. "Restocking your son's herds?"

Éothain grinned. "He's a true Eastfolder. Can't have enough horses."

The boy had risen and bobbed a greeting to the king, fetched a chair for him to sit on the other side near the hearth and then went in search for his elder sister to serve their guest some refreshment. Éothain grinned wryly once the boy had disappeared. "I'd better warn you, Eorthwela is visiting some neighbours, teaching the girls to weave ribbons, and the kids have just decided that lime blossom tea is the flavour of the month. I'm afraid Mildgydh will serve you that."

Soon Mildgydh appeared, a girl of ten and in face and frame promising to become her mother's counterpart. She took her role as temporary mistress of the house most seriously, and carrying a small tray with a cup and some small cakes, she gravely greeted the king. "Westu, Éomer Cyning, hal. Welcome under our roof."

Taking the offered cup, Éomer thanked her, falling in with the girl's official tone. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw Éothain leaning back in his chair, a proud smile on his face at his daughter's performance.

The cup in fact held lime blossom tea, but Éomer found the taste quite agreeable, and soon the four of them sat around the fire, chatting. While the boy was quite boisterous, demanding his father's attention heedless of their guest, the girl sat and watched, participating in the conversation only when addressed directly. Yet she was not at all shy, speaking with a clear voice and facing whoever she was talking to with intelligent eyes.

"Why did you not go with your mother to weave ribbons?" Éomer asked her after a while. "Surely you know how to use a weaving comb."

He noticed how much effort it cost her not to roll her eyes. "I certainly do. I have several combs of different sizes, even a large one to make belts." Pointing at her brother's shirt, decorated with borders in complicated patterns of grey, red and green at neckline, cuffs and hem she said: "I wove these last year already. Mother did not want me to come with her, not to embarrass the girls." Her lips curled deprecatingly. "Bilswith is already twelve and does not know how yet."

_Béma! That girl truly was her mother's daughter._ Éomer found it difficult to keep a straight face. Éothain and he had come to know Eorthwela eleven years ago, after an orc-raid on the herds in the East Emnet. Their Éored had been in time to intercept and finish off those foul creatures and the herders had been more than grateful, inviting them to stay at the camp to treat their injuries and have a good meal and rest. And there she had been, watching over the big cauldron the stew was cooking in, and all the time a weaving comb had been in her hands, the threads being affixed to some kind of pole, and her fingers had been in motion, weaving the most impressive patterns he had ever seen. He had exchanged his eating knife then for a length of ribbon in five different colours he had wanted to give to Éowyn, and for a long time it had been his sister's favourite hair-band.

They had all been even more impressed, though, by the young woman's appearance than by her weaving skills. Tall, proud, with her strong features and the visible strength and muscles the heavy work with the herds caused, she had seemed aloof, more so, as she had seldom smiled and talked. But her eyes had beheld everything, and seeing what needed to be done, she had stepped into action: feeding, grooming, bandaging wounds, cooking meals... and weaving, not responding with a single twitch of her full lips to the admiring stares of the men around her. Never had he seen a woman with that long lashes. They were the colour of ripe barley like her curly hair, tamed by a single braid at the left side of her head, with shorter curls escaping all around her face, contradicting her stern mien. And it had not only been her hair that had drawn the Riders' attention to her. Long-and clean-limbed like the precious horses she cared for she had been, a slender filly and yet the curve of her hips and her more than ample breasts had provided everything to make not only the youngest Riders of the Éored drool and get some damned tight feeling in the groin.

He never had asked Éothain why he had sported that black eye the next morning, but his friend's horror when they learned the next day that she was Captain Grimboern's eldest daughter did not go unnoticed. Though she must never have talked to her father, or Éothain would certainly not be sitting happily in his hall, having fathered two and a third one visibly on the way.

Éomer grinned, remembering Éothain's face when at their return to the garrison he had been welcomed by a bunch of jeering Riders into the brotherhood of those who had made acquaintance with Eorthwela's notorious right hook.

No, she certainly was not one given to words, and not one to be easily impressed by the gift of the gab, but there had been few young men as persistent as Éothain. Over half a year he had wooed her, saving up his pay to bribe herders to tell him where Grimboern's herd and daughter could be found, sending her little presents and talking to her whenever he could arrange a meeting.

When he had finally convinced her that he was all the man she needed, things had developed rather fast and thoroughly, as was Eorthwela's wont. And though Grimboern had grumbled something about the untried colt who had the nerve to approach his daughter, Eorthwela's stubbornness had been as little a fact to ignore as her progressed pregnancy.

Éomer had often asked himself if Eorthwela had ever regretted having exchanged the plains of the Eastfold for the comparative narrowness of Edoras, but he felt quite sure that Éothain would have told him if anything had been amiss, his wife's well-being and contentment being his friend's paramount concern.

Sipping his tea, he watched his friend placing the last finishing touches to the small carved horse.

"See, lad, now he's perfect." Grinning, Éothain held up the toy, and his son reached out, his forefinger stroking over the mane of the wooden horse, his small face glowing with delight.

"Oh, Faeder, just as I wanted it. You're the best. Can I show it to Gudram?" Not waiting for permission, the boy snatched the toy and bolted out of the door, which earned him a frown from his elder sister.

"The dolt should have taken his cloak," she stated, and then, realising that Éomer did not have any cloak with him either, she shot the king an insecure glance from under long golden lashes.

Seeing his daughter's embarrassment, Éothain tried to distract her. "Be a good girl and fetch us two mugs of ale, Mildgydh. Now that bother of a boy is away, we should have some peace to enjoy a draught."

Bobbing her consent, the girl left for the pantry, and Éothain turned to his friend and king. "Well, Éomer, what brings you to my humble home?"

"My feet, I dare say."

Éothain laughed. "You have made more intelligent remarks in your life, Éomer. It seems spending too much time spent with that barmy Gondorean rubs off on you."

"On me?" Éomer raised an eyebrow in mock reprimand. "You are dealing much more with him lately." It was nearly two sennights now that Erchirion had taken up regular training with the Éoreds stationed at Edoras, and during some days Éomer had not seen his friend and future brother at all. "Is Erchirion giving you any problems?"

"Me? No, why should he? I'm no wench."

"Come on, he can't be that bad. I know he's a skirt chaser, but I certainly never heard any wench complain about him."

Éothain chuckled. "No, he certainly is a skilled swordsman on any kind of battlefield. As a matter of fact that bloke is having the time of his life, as besides fighting, boozing and wenching there is not much that holds his interest."

"Eating chillies and sailing," Éomer grinned, remembering Erchirion's foibles.

Éothain guffawed. "Bet you that buckwild Dol Amroth princeling will one day find a way to sail on dry ground. But no, I don't have any complaint about Prince Erchirion. He's an exceptional sword fighter but always willing to teach others without any haughtiness. The men worship him and the women dote on him. And he's most eager to learn the Rohirric way of fighting on horseback. The only problem is that he sings like a drunken crow, and he's not making any progress with the language. Except for learning the battle commands he has not put much energy into it." Éothain shrugged. "Doesn't matter though. Improves the men's skill in the Common Tongue."

They interrupted their banter because Mildgydh came back with the ale. She handed them the mugs, and then she addressed her father. "Faeder, I'm carding wool in the shed. So if you don't need me any more I would like to continue."

Éothain gave her a worried smile. "Don't overdo it, daughter."

She scowled at her father. "You said yourself that carding will strengthen my arm-muscles, didn't you?"

"I did, Dear, and it certainly does. " Éothain pulled his daughter close. "But you'll pull a sinew or a muscle the way you try to force it. There is no need to worry, Mildgydh. You'll manage fine. You're not the first girl to weave her Bryd Baelc."

Éomer raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Mildgydh, you are only ten, aren't you? You surely are too young for weaving the Bryd Baelc." He did not know what to make of it. The Bryd Baelc, a blanket the girl had to weave entirely on her own was the common sign that she had stepped into womanhood, and though tall and healthy, Mildgydh was nowhere near that.

The girls brows knitted in a frown. "I know. But when I weave it, I want it to be special. That's why I wanted to start weaving on the large loom, to learn. But mother won't let me."

Éothain sighed. "Mother thinks that working the large loom would be too straining for you, Dear. You're still growing."

The girl snorted. "You said I would grow stronger, carding, and now you tell me to stop it."

Éomer could perceive that he was watching a repeated argument, and he did not envy his friend. He truly was caught between a rock and a hard place with the two females of his family. Thinking how to help restore the peace of Éothain's house, he remembered Gytha and her love for the loom, and not thinking twice, he said: "My girl is two years older than you, and she has not woven her Baelc yet, but her mother lets her use the large loom. Perhaps I should try and persuade your mother if you promise not to overdo it."

The girl looked at him, then at her father, and then simply doubled over with laughter. "Not even Father could convince her, how do you think you can manage?"

Éomer shrugged. "I don't know. But if you want me to, I would try."

She eyed him, her head tilted like some curious bird. Then she nodded. "I'll give you three ells of three-coloured ribbon if you manage to make her change her mind before Yule. And now I'll go and continue carding." Wiggling out of her father's arms, she bobbed a greeting and left the room, while Éothain put down the mug with a sigh.

"Eorthwela will roast my balls for you backing up the girl."

Éomer shook his head. "I think your wife is right in general, and I would have shared her opinion to keep the mite from the large loom, remembering Éowyn cursing and throwing the carding combs at me when it was her turn to weave the Baelc. But when I was at Aldburg, Gytha gifted me with a carpet she had woven and Hrodwyn assured me that she is a skilled weaver, both on the small and the large loom. Seems girls differ, you know." He scratched his jawline. "Perhaps Eorthwela should simply have a look at the carpet Gytha made. That might be more convincing than all my talking."

"Well, we'll see." Grinning, Éothain reached for his mug. "I just wonder, what you will do with three ells of three-coloured ribbon."

**ooo**

Like the previous nights he had spread her letters over the top of his desk, and reading them in chronological order, he relished in the proof of growing trust and intimacy. He tried to remember what he himself had written in his answers, but only a few significant phrases came to his mind. What he remembered most vividly though were his mood, his feelings reading her letters and writing his replies.

Again and again his attention was drawn to her last letter, and though he had read it a dozen times during the last days, each time he felt a jolt of desire rush through his body. This letter was wonderful, as each line, each phrase brought the woman he loved and craved for, his bold and passionate pirate, before his inner eye. And yet that posed a problem he was unable to solve: How to answer?

He knew what he should write, what he wanted to communicate to her, but he could not phrase it, fearing his words would sound shallow and rude. He wanted to tell her how much her letter, her breathtaking confessions meant to him, how her passionate avowal had filled him with pride and joy, how her devotion had shaken him to the core, causing his desires to flare uncontrollably. But he lacked the words. He realised that even were she present he would not be able to express himself in words. A kind of stubborn sulkiness rose in him. He was a man of sword and spear, not some silver-tongued bard, but a warrior, a man of action. And he was sure that once he had her in his arms no further words would be necessary.

And yet: He needed to assure her about his feelings, his reaction to her letter. She had dared much and from her other letters he knew that doubts assailed her now and then. He could not bear the thought that she might have misgivings about the rightness of her display of desire for him. And he had to admit that he wanted her to go on writing like that: open, unrestricted, tempting and overwhelming. He had compared her other letters to a cup of her almond liqueur, but this last one had made him feel as if he was licking the intoxicating spirit off her sun-warmed skin.

And there was the desire to draw level, to make her feel as aroused by his letters as he had felt by hers. The thought of her, overwhelmed by desire, helpless in the throes of passion caused another wave of heat to surge through him.

He bit his knuckles. He had to stop that. He needed to keep a clear head, to write this letter to assure her that she was cherished and loved, not to unhinge her by screaming out his uncontrolled lust. Walking over to the window, he threw the casements open. The cold, gusty air that streamed in smelt of snow. There would be fewer letters in the future, the way being twice as long now - and spring might bring battle and war instead of the delight of a wedding night.

Forcefully he closed the window. Life was short and every moment of it was precious. He would use the time given to him as best as he could. And what better purpose was there than to assure a loving woman that her feelings were reciprocated. He gathered her letters into a pile, putting the last one on top, reached for vellum and quill and started to write.

_Dearest Lothíriel, my love, my wife,_

_for am I not entitled to call you thus as you give yourself to me willingly in your daydreams? I feel honoured by your trust and I am delighted by your passion, and I feel drawn to you with my entire being._

_And yet I am not able to respond to your letter alike. I cannot mould my emotions, my thoughts into words. Were you here, in front of my eyes, in my arms, I still would lack the words. You call yourself a mage, and magic words you put before me. You cast a spell over me and I willingly submit to it. I devoured your letter and it devoured me._

He read what he had written and frowned, finding his words stilted and pathetic. She certainly deserved better. At least he would try.

_I have no word-craft, my love, I am a warrior, but I remember each of your words as if you wrote them with letters of fire on my skin. And I will give you my answer in spring, wordless, but you will understand me. I thank you for your confidence, your trustful openness that made me live through our very first day again._

Again he stopped, hesitating. He wanted to tell her about the thrill that had seized him at her confession of feeling claimed by him, but no words came to his mind to express this mixture of possessive pride, lust and deepest care that had filled him, reading her words. He was aware of the darker tones in his feelings, was afraid he might scare her should he phrase his desires. But he knew he had to tell he that he understood her. He sighed. As much as he relished the god-like aura she had put him in, he felt obliged to tell her the truth. It did not correspond with the feelings he had had for her at that moment.

Care he had felt, care and admiration, and a strange twinge, seeing the Mark's colours at her wrist, but nothing close to the scorching desire he felt for her now. That had come later, had grown, encouraged by her behaviour and open admittance of how much she enjoyed it. No, he had not claimed her then, but that moment for the first time he had had a vague impression about a future together. He was no god, but he was sure he would feel like one, each time they shared their passion.

His pondering was interrupted by a knock at the door, and after his summons a young guard opened the door, announcing Ealhild and Inga to see the king.

_The weavers! _

Putting his quill down, he rose to greet Ealhild and her daughter. While the daughter sported the typical Rohirric features, the master-weaver of Edoras was rather short for an Eorling, her brown hair streaked with grey. He remembered that there were rumours about her having Dunlandish blood, as her ancestors hailed from Sigward's fief, the triangle between Adorn and Isen. Her family had been living in Edoras for generations, probably since Fréaláf reconquered Meduseld from Wulf, Éomer thought, suppressing a wry grin, and still the Dunland heritage showed and the gossip had not died down. For a fleeting moment he wondered what the people would say about an heir to the throne of the Mark with Lothíriel's colouring and Imrahil's features.

Inga was carrying a large bundle wrapped in undyed linen and now stepped forward to put it on the desk. Shoving parchment and quill aside, Éomer made room for her, and then, with movements that held an aura of ceremoniousness, Ealhild folded back the cloth that enveloped the bundle.

Éomer caught a glimpse of dark blue wool, the corner of a blanket, bordered with a hem of deepest red, and then the women unfolded the blanket, spreading it out over the chairs and Éomer's heart leapt with joy.

For more than a month both weavers had been working tirelessly and with expert skill, the result being a marvel to behold. The cloth itself fell in soft folds, and when he passed his hands over its surface, the sheer softness of the fabric made the hairs on his forearm rise. The hem was firmer, being woven tighter to stabilise the blanket, and while it was so dark that its red did not clash with the blue of the cloth, tiny multi-rayed stars in so pale a yellow that they looked nearly white were strewn over the entire surface, forming an intriguing contrast. He was surprised, as he had not ordered any embroideries, though he thought them splendid, making the blanket look like a piece of star-spangled nightly sky. Enquiringly he looked at he the weavers.

Ealhild smiled. "We put in some stitches to keep the blankets in shape. The cloth is quite delicate and thin and thus we prevent both layers from shifting or bulging."

Grabbing the edges, the women turned the blanket, and where it had shown the sky in Dol Amroth blue, it now was a meadow, the soft green of the grass adorned with pale star-shaped blossoms. He gasped. He had wondered whether the weavers would be able to implement his idea of a two-sided blanket in blue and green, whether the fabric would be soft enough, but this excelled his expectations.

"A true masterpiece, Ealhild," he finally said, unable to keep his hands off the soft cloth.

"Anything else would not be fit for the queen to-be, Éomer Cyning." The weaver's face was grave, while her daughter, standing behind her, grinned happily.

They had agreed on a fitting price before, but Éomer felt he ought to give them an extra. "Tell me, is there anything I can do for you, as a token of acknowledgement of your expert work?"

Ealhild met his gaze openly, but she did not smile. "Nothing but what any woman of the Riddermark has the right to ask of you, be she a master weaver or a skill-less scullery-maid, Éomer King: Give the Mark peace." Seeing his surprised frown, the ghost of a smile stole into her eyes. "I know that is nothing that can be achieved within a short term. As long as there is a single orc or warg prowling the mountains, as long as there are peoples around us, driven by their lords' hunger for riches and land, the Eorlingas will have to fight. I don't disavow that. But do restrict yourself to protect what is ours and do not get lured into the rush for greatness by the kingdom that arises anew in the south. Stoningland may be your ally, your queen may come from there, but you stand for the House of Eorl and the future of your people lies in the Mark, not in any country that might be conquered outside her borders."

He blinked, surprised at her bluntness but even more at her interference. "Ealhild, would you want the Eorlingas to cower behind the lines of our allies from Gondor, letting them do the fighting when foes assail Stoningland's borders?"

The weaver rolled her eyes. "I sometimes have the feeling that men deliberately get it wrong when women take them to task."

He could not help a grin. "Then enlighten me, Ealhild, for though I'm king, there can be no doubt that first of all I am a man."

She snorted. "There can be no doubt that the Eorlingas will stand true to their oaths. Why, a death in battle is certainly better than a life in cowardice. Should Gondor be threatened, the Éoreds will have to stand at her side, holding up the pride of the Mark." Her broad face was open, her gaze firm, there was nothing but quiet self-confidence in her bearing, though due to her shortness she had to tilt her head back to hold the king's gaze. "But there are those among the men, who, after a mug or two, will talk about vast realms and pastures that lie open in the East and South once we have defeated the enemies there." She twisted her mouth askew. " They see themselves as Eorl reborn, conquering new lands for the Eorlingas to claim."

"Idiots!" Éomer's face had darkened while Ealhild had been speaking. "Eorl did not come to the Field of Celebrant to claim a territory but to help an ally against a common foe. And when the Ruling Steward offered the Mark to him he took the chance, as the Éotheod were rather hemmed in in the upper vales of the Anduin." He had started to pace the room. "We don't even have enough people to settle the Mark, and these dolts talk about new realms!"

A calm smile spread over Ealhild's face. "I'm happy to have heard your opinion, Éomer Cyning, as it puts my heart at ease. There is no doubt that you will stuff the bragging down their throats."

He shook his head. "Ealhild, the Mark's peace, her people's well-being, has to be the foremost and noblest task for every ruler at Meduseld. That is what I am sworn to, having received the crown of the Riddermark, not to fulfil the drunken dreams of some hotspurs. And I feel obliged to do my very best. That is something you and every Eorling has the right to demand." Smiling he looked down on her. "But certainly there is something I may reward you with for your excellent work."

She shook her head. "We have agreed on a price, Éomer Cyning, a high price, and that I will take. A simple weaver I am, but I too think it's my duty to do my very best."

**ooo**

Once the weavers had left, he tried to continue his letter, but all the time his gaze was drawn to the voluminous bundle they had placed on one of the chairs. His fingers itched to touch the soft fabric, his imagination whirled with pictures of her desirable body wrapped in its caressing folds. No way he would wait and send it to Minas Tirith. It was splendid and he wanted her to have it at the first possible opportunity. He had to finish the letter to send it the next day.

_My dear love, do you remember the letter in which you told me you were a Gondorean hot-house plant that needed to be kept warm? Do you remember that you yourself speculated I might think of ways to keep you warm? Lothíriel, there certainly are ways to do so I would prefer, but as we agree that I cannot come to Dol Amroth without causing uncountable problems, here comes the second best solution._

_The weavers set to work as soon as I had read your letter and I hope you like the result. It was my idea to use blue and green, for thus, my love, covering yourself at night, you can pretend to be the demure and well-behaved Gondorean princess, as all will see the coverlet sporting Dol Amroth blue. And only you and I will know about the wild thing, the reckless pirate underneath, caressed by the colours of the Mark. _

It was impossible to go on writing. Laying down the quill, he slowly opened the bundle. How incredibly soft the wool felt under his calloused hands. ..._I touched your things, leaving my smell on your pillow... _Herwords echoed in his imagination. Seizing the blanket, he stepped into the adjoining bedroom. The wind had increased and a gush of rain and hail was clattering against the windows. With impatient hands he threw off his clothes and then wrapped his naked body in the soft fabric, gasping as it touched his skin. ..._leaving my smell on your pillow..._

He stood in the darkness of the room, relishing in the contact, in the idea that her body would be wrapped into his touch, his smell. He would have liked to sleep wrapped in this incredible softness, dreaming of her, but he was afraid he might soil it in the uncontrolled passion of his dreams. But there was at least a compromise.

Swiftly he went back into his study, snuffing the candles but one, which he took back with him to the bedroom. Rubbing the green side of the blanket once more longingly over his abdomen and chest, he folded it and put it on the large bed, casting the pillow aside. ..._leaving my scent on your pillow..._ With a content smile he slipped under the covers, burying his face in the pile of yielding wool. At least in his dreams he would embrace her.

* * *

><p><strong>Annotations:<strong>

**bryd: **(Rohirric/Old English) bride; lass; young woman

**baelc: **((Rohirric/Old English) coverlet; blanket

**weaving comb:** I am not sure, if that is the fitting expression in English, but if you want to get a better understanding google: **webkamm weben. **The site is in German, but there are a lot of pictures that will perfectly make clear what Eorthwela was doing.


	18. Chapter 18

So here comes some more about Rohirric life, fearless Riders, determined women and excessive wagering. Starring the Horselord, a quite emotional letter from a certain princess and last but not least my favourite dragon.

Thanks to all of you for reading and especially for reviewing. I hope I did not forget to PM any reviewer, but life is a bit chaotic at the moment with finals and sheep shearing.

And very, very special thanks to **sep12 **who had a quite demanding task this time as I had been a bit more careless than usual and thus bombarded her with typos. Sorry, **sep **! Just let me express the humble wish to better myself. ;-) 

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 18<strong>

Taking two steps at once, Éomer sprinted up the stairs that led to the Golden Hall, cursing when he nearly lost his footing on the mushy mixture of rain, snow and hailstones that covered the steps. When he finally darted under the awning of Meduseld he was totally soaked despite the shortness of the way up to the Hall from the royal stables. He shook himself like a wet dog, pitying the door wardens, for though they stood under the roof, the heavy gusts drove the showers well up to the door, making their position wet, cold and uncomfortable.

Entering the Hall, he walked towards the table where Erchirion and Éothain were sitting amongst a group of men, mostly members of the royal guard, and he let his gaze scan the different groups that were scattered all over the large room.

The hall of Meduseld was thronging with people, as the storm raging the second day in a row was restricting life to indoors. He felt nervous, missing the physical exercise of riding and sparring and he knew that most of the men present felt likewise. Only Erchirion, sitting in the middle of one of the long benches, joking and drinking, seemed totally unimpressed by the inactivity forced upon them by the inclement weather.

Under the scrutinizing eye of Frithuswith the servants were about, laying the long tables for the evening meal, while Master Calimab was sitting at a table near one of the wooden columns, copying the pattern of the intricate carvings in painstaking detail.

A young serving girl had approached him with a stack of the low bowls that normally were used to serve stew, but now stood undecidedly. The entire table was covered with parchments, showing different sketches, and visibly in awe, the girl did not dare to interrupt him.

Smiling, Éomer went over to free the servant from her dilemma, but Frithuswith forestalled him."Master Calimab!" Her full, low-pitched voice rung over the noise of the Hall. With a few steps she was at the girl's side, unceremoniously poking her forefinger into the carpenter's back. "As much as we all admire your sketches, we can't eat them. But eat we must. Be so kind and remove them, so the girl can lay the table."

She spoke the Common Tongue, though heavily accented, but the old carpenter looked at her, as if he had not understood a single word. Noticing the girl with the bowls he finally realised he was hindering her work and with a flourish and a stream of polite excuses he started to collect his utensils.

Frithuswith peeked over his shoulder with unabashed curiosity to get a glimpse at the drawing he had been working at and then frowned. "Master Calimab, why do you draw it like that?"

The carpenter looked puzzled. "Like what, mistress Frithuswith? I assure you there is no difference to my usual way of sketching."

Frithuswith shook her head. "Why do you draw the crack in the column? It goes right through the pattern of the engravings, destroying the entire ensemble. Why do you show that ugliness?"

"Ugliness?" The greybeard's eyebrows nearly shot up to the brim of the grey-blue silken cap he was wearing. "Dear mistress Frithuswith, there is no ugliness in that fissure." He turned in the chair to be able to face her. "That crack, as you call it, is a sign of life, pointing out the structure of the living tree this beam once was, centuries ago. You see, it must have been gnarled at this spot and therefore did not dry out regularly and then, perhaps years after it had been placed to carry the roof of the king's house, it split, following the given texture, and so did the engravings that covered it. Doing so, it changed the pattern, mistress Frithuswith, but it did not destroy it." He smiled at the housekeeper. "The beauty of both carvings and wood, is still there. But much as the wrinkles the years etch into the face of a beautiful woman can never destroy her beauty but rather add dignity, this crack highlights the effect of the artwork for me."

Frithuswith's frown deepened, but Éomer was intrigued by the old carpenter's statement and stepped closer. Looking over the man's shoulder, he glanced at the sketch and then at the column itself, realising that the old craftsman was right. He had never given the carvings such a close look before, had taken them as something ordinary, but now he truly saw what Calimab beheld: Dignity and beauty.

He grinned at Frithuswith's frowning face. "He's right, Frithuswith. I can see what he means, both in the timber and in your face."

Snorting, she threw up her hand. "Pha! Birds of a feather... Cracks and wrinkles and beauty and dignity! What else? Don't try to tell me that the dignity of a wrinkled face makes the blokes turn their heads because they see beauty in it!"

Casting the king a brief side glance, Calimab turned to her with a broad smile. "Storm-grey and steel-blue would be the colours to match your eyes now, mistress Frithuswith, but be it wrinkled or smooth, certainly no man would look at your face unimpressed."

"Just stop the blarney, will you? And clear your hotchpotch away so the girl can lay the table." Her voice was forceful, but with no small surprise Éomer saw the colour of a faint blush turn her cheeks pink.

Calimab had noticed it too, and rising he bowed to her, remarking with a wink: "Mistress Frithuswith, I would lift my cap to you, but I'm glad I have the excuse to have my hands full. You see, I'm a bit vain, and therefore it would embarrass me to display my balding head to you. Age certainly is something that not only assaults women." With that he turned to deposit his sketches and drawing utensils out of the way. Frithuswith looked after him, shaking her head and then turned towards the work at hand.

"No doubt a skilled strategist." Erchirion's voice betrayed his mirth.

Éomer turned to face his friend, who had come up to greet him, mug in hand. "He may be, Erchirion, and I know that Frithuswith is woman enough to fend him off on her own, but if that old peacock hurts her, I'll cut him into rather thin twitching ribbons."

Erchirion chuckled. "If he really offends Frithuswith, you will never have a chance to do anything the like because that woman will be at least one step ahead of you. But don't worry. Calimab is no fool. He will keep his hands off her. Believe me, he knows danger when he sees it."

Éomer grimaced. "I saw him at Beaccotlif. He enjoys the attention of women, and Frithuswith not paying him any might be quite a challenge to him."

His friend nodded. "No doubt. But stop fussing, man. Frithuswith is no blushing maiden. I'm pretty sure she would rather kick your shins for your overbearing protectiveness."

Éomer sighed, a sheepish expression on his face. "You're probably right; at least Éowyn did. But I just can't help it. It would drive me mad to see her unhappy."

**ooo**

The dishes of the evening-meal had been cleared away, and Éomer was sitting near the central hearth-fire, deep in conversation with Erchirion when the door opened and Hereward entered. The hubbub of the Hall died down, and everyone stared at him as he approached the king, holding out the courier's satchel in front of him like a trophy. His hair was wet and matted, hanging in dishevelled braids, his soaked cloak leaving trails of water behind and his lips were cracked and crusted by the storm, but nevertheless curved in a broad grin. "I made it. I'm back with an answering letter before the morning of the ninth day."

A roar of whoops rose up from the groups of men around the table, some banging their mugs and tankards on the table in confirmation, while others looked rather surprised and slightly sour. No doubt another bet. Éomer shook his head, taking the satchel. "One day you are going to break your neck with all this risky wagering."

The grin now nearly split Hereward's face. "No need, Sire. With this bet pocketed, I'll be able to buy the heifer. And if you are willing to give me three days off, I'll be doing so tomorrow."

"First of all you'll go over to the guardroom and change into something dry. I'll send one of the boys over with some clothes. I don't want you to dribble all over the hall and I suppose at least Brenda, if nobody else, would mind if you hung up your harness due to pneumonia. Get yourself dried and then you'll sit down and have a bite while you no doubt will be collecting your winnings." Frithuswith's voice was stern, contradicted by the mirthful twinkle of her eyes.

Swiftly, Hereward stepped up to her and pecked her on both cheeks. "Thank you Frithuswith. You certainly are my favourite dragon."

Laughing, the old housekeeper slapped him around the ear, ordering him to be off. Not a few men guffawed and accompanied his retreat with ribald remarks, and Éomer could not help a chuckle at the courier's cockiness. Only when he turned back to Erchirion did he notice Master Calimab out of the corner of his eye. With surprise he noticed the troubled expression on the old carpenter's face. Not knowing the language, the Gondorean certainly had not been able to understand what exactly had passed between Frithuswith and Hereward, but it seemed to disturb him profoundly. Éomer's gaze flew to Frithuswith, just soon enough to catch her looking at the Gondorean and see the corners of her mouth crinkle in a wry smile before she turned her head, ordering a servant to fetch a meal and some mulled cider for the courier.

"Well Brother," emptying his cup, Erchirion smirked at him, "we'd better call it a day. You will be useless for any kind of conversation as long as you have not read my sister's letter, so I'd better leave you to it."

With a lopsided grin Éomer drained his own cup, and bidding Erchirion good night, he went to his rooms, his hand already reaching into his tunic for the letter while he was still on his way.

**ooo**

The fire in his study had burnt low, and adding fuel he stoked it before pulling a chair close to read by the light of the fire. When he opened the letter a slip of paper, not larger than his palm, fell out of it. Snatching it up, he looked at it and to his utter surprise he found it empty. Frowning, he placed it in his lap, unfolding the pages. Four pages in her distinct hand! He felt his joy and anticipation rise. Hereward had returned within eight days; she must have written immediately after she had received his gifts. Smiling he started to read.

_Dear Éomer,_

_what a lovely surprise your letter and your wonderful gifts are! The information that landslides had closed the ravine of the Morthond reached Dol Amroth but two days ago, so I was not expecting any courier at all. On the contrary, I was rather worried about Cena, who had left for Edoras three days before I got the ill news. But then, that man had seemed so capable that I felt sure he would be able to judge what risk could be taken. And you certainly sent another true Rohir with that Hereward, who caused quite a stir when he arrived late in the evening and insisted to hand the packet only to the princess in person, and at once, mind you, not the next morning._

Éomer shook his head, grinning at Hereward's persistence. The courier certainly had behaved in an entirely unacceptable way, but who was he to complain about it, having thus got an answer so soon. He felt his groin tighten, thinking of the letter Cena had brought with that load of oranges. _Béma, he certainly was a blessed man! _And already he held another letter in his hands, another addition to his treasures. Eagerly, he continued reading.

_And here I am, trying to compose a letter, my head and heart still in upheaval, for he wants to leave before dawn. I feel quite proud of myself that I was able to understand what he told me about his reasons for his urgency, and I have to admit that I enjoyed myself mightily, talking to him in the presence of my brother without Elphir understanding a word. _

Éomer could not help a chuckle, imagining Prince Elphir, trying to keep a composed countenance, while Lothíriel exchanged some unintelligible lingo with a no doubt already then dishevelled errand rider.

_You may call me childish, but it was so different from talking to soft spoken and patient Beorhtraed, and I felt like being out for a ride in the countryside after having spent many hours doing endless rounds on the lunge line. I know now I can manage, and that is such a good feeling!_

That really was his pirate queen. He had never doubted her abilities to manage, but he was surprised how fast she had learned the language.

_True, I did not understand every word by far, and I was really shocked when he told me that he had to be back in Edoras before the morning of the ninth day. I told him that I could not imagine you would demand anything like that, given the conditions of the road and the weather. He then explained that it really had nothing to do with anything you ordered, but with a bet he wanted to win under all circumstances because he wanted to buy a cow. _

Éomer frowned. _That imbecile Hereward! _Fast reply or not, he would take the courier to task for his impertinence. He wondered why Lothíriel had put up with it.

_He also said something about a marriage, but I did not really understand who was going to marry who and what role that cow played in all this, but I remembered that you wrote in your last letter about some wagering going on in Edoras and you owing a favour to someone. As well I think he is right that every day will worsen the conditions up in the mountains, and so I'm sitting here, wanting to tell you so much and not knowing where to start._

Remembering what he had written in his last letter, Éomer sighed. Hereward certainly was impertinent, but then he himself had indulged him because he had wanted her to get an answer as soon as possible.

_Can you imagine my curiosity when I was given the packet with that wrapped box and the folder? I expected the folder to hold the drawings Master Calimab had promised me, but I did not know what the parcel might hold, and therefore I started with that._

_How could I ever doubt that you can carve! The box is simply lovely, and thinking that you carved it for me makes me feel so marvellous. Somehow giddy, as if I had drunk a cup of potent wine. _

He breathed deep, trying to call her smiling face to his mind. She liked his present. Not that he had really doubted it, but to read it in her own words was nearly as nice as to hear her murmur them in his ear.

_It is so nice how you took my tokens and arranged them into something new: the ears in a sheaf, my flowers to flank it. It is so sweet and intimate a design. I wish I could kiss you for it. _

He grinned, not minding at all to be kissed.

_How much work, how much time must it have taken to work such a wonderful piece. As I write this, I have it in front of me on my desk and the soft lustre of the lime wood, its rich soft colour and smooth surface seem to smile at me. And it smells of juniper! I feel like crying and laughing at the same time._

And there it was again, that strange feeling that made his heart ache and desire uncurl in his blood. To imagine her reaction, her passion... He swallowed, forcing himself to concentrate on the following sentences.

_Éomer, I know that as Queen of the Riddermark I will have my own signet. Would you think it fitting if I chose the sheaf and my flowers? _

He blinked and read the lines again.

_Seeing your beautiful carvings on the lid of the box, the idea simply crept up in my mind. I know a signet like that would not display any of the traditional tokens of the Mark, but can I not start a new tradition? I am not sure if it would be possible or if the customs of Rohan would provide any serious obstacle. So please tell me, as I do not want to ask Beorhtraed. _

Agitated he stood and managed just in time to catch the small slip of paper before it could sail into the flames. _Béma, if there were any possible obstacles in Middle Earth, he would eliminate them to please her!_ Taking the letter, he started to pace the room. He would ask Master Calimab the next morning to sketch the emblem and then have the best silversmith of Edoras work a signet for her. He soon found that his room was too dark to continue reading, and he returned to the fireplace, careful not to let the strange empty slip drop again.

_But you are a scoundrel to send me garnets! Do you really think that my passion and dedication for you need support and encouragement? But then they say the garnet also keeps sad thoughts and dark moods at bay. And though nearly half of the time till our wedding date has passed, who knows what the dark and cold months of winter will demand me to endure? And certainly the dark gleam of the stones will bring warmth at least to my heart and mind._

Though his foremost emotion was joy, he could not but notice the slightly subdued tune of her phrasing. Well, the blanket would be in her possession at the longest in a fortnight, so even if he could not be with her, there would be something else to keep her warm.

_I am wearing the necklace while I am writing this, have actually worn it since the moment I discovered it in the box. I love it, Éomer, and I feel touched in a strange way by its dark fire, the mingling of red and black, living flame and shrouding smoke. How well it fits to be your present!_

Reading the paragraph again, he pondered what exactly she was indicating, wishing she would have been more explicit, as he could not help a daring display of all kinds of highly passionate scenes playing before his inner eye.

_You say I should decide whether I want to have the silver polished or if I want to wear it as it is. I will leave it blackened, as I have the suspicion that you like it that way, for otherwise you would have had it polished before sending it to me. But there will come a day when I shall have it polished, for this necklace shall be given to my, to our, first daughter the day she will be introduced into society. And as befitting a young girl, I would like the metal to sparkle then._

As much as he regretted the lack of passion in her last statement, he had to admit he felt highly pleased, thinking about a young girl and Lothíriel and him as the proud parents. But as he went on reading he found himself rewarded.

_Dear Éomer, I read your letter again and again, trying to imagine the sound of your voice, whispering the words into my ear. How I would like to have you here in person. And yet there are Master Calimab's drawings that are constantly distracting me from writing coherently, as I feel forced to gaze at them again and again._

For a second, he pondered how nice it would be to have a picture of her, but he immediately dismissed that idea. No way would he accept any artist to see her the way he would like to have her sketched.

_Looking at the first ones was simply nice, and I highly enjoyed how he managed to capture the essence of life and people in the Mark. The sketch of the two children especially made me smile. Éomer, I really wish that one day old Calimab will draw a similar picture of our children, though I am afraid that any daughter of mine will not sleep as peacefully as the little mite in Calimab's sketch as long as anything interesting is going on around her._

He never noticed that he smiled like an idiot as he continued reading, but after no more than the second sentence he felt his breath hitch.

_And then my eye fell on that sketch of you carrying the browpiece. Éomer, I still find it difficult to express my feelings, seeing it. It was like something hot rushing through me: happiness at seeing your face, pride at beholding the seriousness and care you displayed concerning my gift, and some strange dark longing, realising your physical strength that enabled you to carry that beam without any hint of labour on your face. And my eyes were caught by your hands, those large, strong hands holding the beam like you were cradling it, and I remembered how they had felt on my body: hard, calloused and yet so tender in their caress._

How he wished he were able to caress her there and then! He softly cursed at the confinement his breeches posed to his hardening member. She truly was a mage with words. Eagerly he took in her next lines.

_I switched to the next sketch, to overcome this feeling. Never have I done anything more futile than that! That last picture! It literally took my breath away and I just sat and stared, speechless, expecting my heart to stand still any moment. Éomer, you hinted at a ritual in your letter, and I know now from the explanations Master Calimab added to his sketches that he took it at that ritual, that you prayed for the well-being of your people but seeing you in this state of trance I was simply … I lack the words to describe what I felt the first moment. _

He could not help the chuckle that burst forth, stopping his reading in mid-sentence. His mage of words to be speechless!. That certainly was something.

_But then, you may call me childish for it, it was pure jealousy that took me. I envied Calimab, having seen you like that, I envied every single person that had been present, I even envied the basket you pressed to your chest. I will not show this picture to anybody, as I still feel that smouldering greed and selfishness inside me. Nobody save me should see you like that, lost in rapture, vulnerable and strong at the same time. I feel as if I can have a glimpse at your very soul in that sketch, and I am ashamed, realising that it is through the eyes and hands of Calimab I behold it. And yet: For nothing in this entire Middle-Earth would I part with it!_

He read the last paragraph again and again, relishing in the awareness of her jealous passion, until all of a sudden he realised that she phrased his very thoughts about a possible picture of her. Could it be that they really felt so much alike?

_I needed some time to calm down enough to be able to have a closer look at the details, and then I got lost in the sketch again, as there are so many aspects that make my heart soar with joy. I noticed that your shoulders are pressed against the browpiece, and I admit that I started to giggle when I realised that the flowers and ears of barley can be seen flanking your upper arms, your chest having taken the place of the emblems. _

_It was only after a while that it dawned on me that perhaps that was something your people realised as well, and suddenly I felt I understood the importance of you being present at the erection of the first granary. Mind you, I had known beforehand that it would be a symbol. I admit that had been one of the reasons to send timber, but I had not understood how deep to the core of your people's feelings and beliefs this symbol would reach. I had seen the practical usefulness, the beauty, the durability of the timber and realised the political benefit. But, as I had not known the meaning of the carvings, I had not understood the entire essence of what I had done. _

_Seeing you now, I understand. And I realise that this understanding completes me, as now I feel what you are for your people, what they mean to you. And it makes me feel warm and strong to think that with the carvings I was there beside you. It is as if seeing your commitment, suddenly my heart understood, where up to then only my brain had. Or perhaps I at last understood my heart? I don't know, but I know that it is as it should be and I pray that one day I will see your face like that and be able to kiss every single part of it._

He let the page sink down, overwhelmed by a feeling that went so much deeper than his former passion. _She wanted him! His wife, his queen! _Together they would face anything that came their way. Heaving a deep breath, he continued reading.

_If only peace would linger a little longer to allow us some undisturbed time together. News from Harondor is rather disturbing, and Mother is greatly worried about Amrothos, who is again out at sea. We fear that he might do something rash and risky, and Mother often says that he certainly shows the strongest traits of the Tol Falas heritage. _

Éomer frowned. Certainly if anyone of Imrahil's offspring was to cause problems it was Amrothos. And again there was that hint at some rather obscure aspects of the Lady Geliris's ancestors. He remembered Erchirion's remark about the entire affair going back to the days of the usurper Castamir. He should really ask his friend to enlighten him. Still frowning, he turned his attention back to the letter.

_And unfortunately he is charismatic enough to make his entire crew follow him into the very fangs of Mordor without hesitation, thinking it but one great adventure and display of seamanship and prowess._

Grimly, Éomer nodded. Had he himself not felt that charisma when they had made ready to defeat Mardil? The next line did nothing to improve his mood.

_Only Radhruin of Pelargir has a sobering influence on him, and only his objections he accepts, acknowledging him as an equal. But though Radhruin is a bold captain, he is also an excellent strategist who is able to calculate and foresee the outcome of his actions and orders and would never hazard his men's lives unnecessarily._

He stared at the page in his hands. Did she realise what she was saying? He knew all too well that he himself had risked the lives of his men, swept away by battle-lust and not heeding anything. He deemed it but little excuse that he then had thought their lives lost anyway. He shook his head. The very first moment he had seen the young Gondorean, Lothíriel had called Radhruin an able captain, and nevertheless she had chosen him, Éomer, Éomund's Son, as her husband. That flash of jealousy rushing through him was absolute nonsense. The next lines held more considerations of the political situation in the south and east, and though he agreed that their fate was highly influenced by them, he regretted that her mood had obviously changed entirely.

_Mother would very much like to be at father's side in Minas Tirith but she does not want to leave before Sídhríl's delivery. We all hope that the troubles in Harondor will calm down. Father informed Elphir that three of the most important lords of the coastal areas have united and approached King Elessar for support against the pirates, that is, Umbar, and offered to try and pacify the inner affairs. What troubles them, and us, most, are rumours about an alliance of Khand and some of the more influential war-lords of Near Harad. _

_On the other hand, there are the tribes of the Haradrian desert of Lostladen that are interested in any kind of protection against Khand and would readily ally themselves with Gondor after the experiences they had with Sauron's allies in the War. But unfortunately, as affairs are at the moment Gondor has no direct access to Lostladen, as the lords in Harondor herself that live on the borders to Harad are not to be trusted. Things would be so much easier if Harondor was clearly a part of Gondor and the River Harnen the southern border. But I am afraid that as long as there are lords who fear the revenge of Near Harad or Umbar should they take side with Gondor, there will be no easy solution._

_I am sorry to have plagued you with things you probably are confronted with every day by your counsellors, and perhaps by King Elessar himself, and yet I think it would not do to close our eyes to the problems that might find us in the near future._

He knew she was right, and he admired her knowledge and intelligence, but he longed for something different. In their other letters they had been discussing political issues also, but he did not want to read about them now. He wanted to close his eyes to reality, even if it could only be for a short while, and revel in the sweetness of her love and passion. He sighed. How much easier would all these things be if he only had her with him in Edoras.

_Dear Éomer, I read your letter again, after pacing the room for a while to calm down. Dawn is already approaching, and I would not like my letter to end in such a morose tone, but the situation worries me and it will not go away if I ignore it. I feel exhausted and tired. I wish I could write you an entirely happy letter, but I am sure that you will understand how much the actual political affairs influence my peace of mind. Who knows, perhaps I will need the garnets to strengthen my power of endurance sooner than we both may wish._

He grunted. How could she make him feel so utterly unkind and selfish with just a handful of words? She was right, and what was more important, she needed his support, and here he was, complaining because she was not pleasing his desires. He felt like kicking himself.

_Everyone around me, and especially my family, need me to be strong and cheerful, calm and encouraging, as besides the general political situation, everyone has their special problems. And so I smile and support them. But being alone at night, I realise how weak I have become with that fear that is gnawing at me. I try to be rational, tell myself that at least part of my misgivings and worries are caused by lack of sleep, because though I am bodily exhausted sleep often eludes me at night and I am just lying in the dark, my thoughts revolving around what might come out of the present political dangers and missing you more than I can say._

He swallowed, realising for the first time the dimension of responsibility that weighed on her. They all demanded her to function, and he himself had been not different. But she had seemed so strong, so confident, so much fun. Only now he remembered how she had cried in his arms, desperate because she could not cope with the idea of having failed in her responsibility towards her friend. He sighed. She took things seriously, and it was his task to give her strength to see them through.

_I am afraid I sound weak and whiny, but who can I tell my fears and misgivings to if not to you, whom I love? I wish I could simply curl up in the solid warmth of your embrace and sleep, your heartbeat being the lullaby to soothe my dreams. _

He desperately wished he could really hold her. What a poor excuse that blanket would be! Grinding his teeth, he continued reading.

_Isn't it strange that I feel so sure you would understand me, and that your presence would calm me? I have to smile at myself as I realise how different the emotions are that draw me towards you, and yet, I believe that both my wish to be held and that passion that sometimes threatens to burst my mind spring from the same root: My confidence in you, the absolute trust that you would do whatever is needed to care for me._

He felt the uncomfortable heat of a blush rise into his cheeks, her confidence delighting him and making him feel ashamed for his selfish greed at the same time.

_Please send your future letters to my father in Minas Tirith. Thus they will reach me in the fastest possible way, because I will either already be there to receive them myself, or my father will speed them on to Dol Amroth._

_This letter will soon be on its way to you, and though it does not end cheerfully, I nevertheless assure you that I am in a much happier mood than many a night before. Your letter, your gifts and that special picture are like rays of sun and warmth to my mind and heart, and they will help me to cope in the days to come._

_I know that it will be much longer now till I hear from you again, but I will put all your letters and your picture in that beautiful box and I'll hide it under my pillow at night, thus having as much of you as I can have as close as I can have it._

_I count the days with impatience and longing._

_Lothíriel_

_PS: Hold the slip of paper over the flame of a candle to heat it, but be careful not to burn it. It holds a secret surprise for you. L._

He sat for a while, staring into the flames with unseeing eyes. She was right. They could not defer politics. And he was sure that not even to him had she dared to mention her worst fears, those fears that repeatedly assailed him: That spring would not bring their wedding, but war at the southern borders.

Shaking himself, he tried to overcome his gloomy mood. He would answer her letter at once, and as soon as the weather permitted, a courier would set off for Minas Tirith to bring her at least the little support he could give her through words and presents.

But there still was this slip of paper. Carefully he held it over the flames of the hearth, making sure that it would get hot without catching fire. At first nothing happened, but then brownish shades started to appear and when he looked at them closely, they seemed like the outlines of a mouth. Shifting to let the light fall on the shades, he stared. No doubt. Where there had been nothing but a cream-coloured surface, now there was the shape of a mouth with slightly opened lips, as if pressed to the paper in a kiss.

A slow smile stole into his stern face. She certainly knew other magic apart from words.

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><p><strong>Annotations:<strong>

You can try Lothíriel's trick yourself. All you need is to wet your lips carefully with milk and then kiss a piece of paper. Let the milk dry and then hold the paper over a flame... and you will see. ;-) As children we even used to write "magic letters", using a dip pen and milk instead of ink.


	19. Chapter 19

There is an unexpected lull in the general battle of the Finals, so I decided to post the next chapter, lest the next update will have to wait till after the 11th June. It is not betaed yet, and I hope there are not too many language mistakes. ( I'm keeping my fingers crossed, sep12, that everything is OK with you.)

Thanks to all of you for your interest in my story, especially to those of you who bothered to give me feedback. I try to PM all reviewers, but I did not manage to trace down "Lucy" (too many on the site ;-)), so I would like to use the opportunity to thank you this way. :-)

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><p><strong>Chapter 19<strong>

Galloping over the plain the next morning, every hoofbeat sent mud and snow slush flying high and soon horse and rider were wet and mud-covered. Not that it did anything to dampen their joy at the exercise after several days' restriction due to the past storm. Having outrun the inevitable guards, Éomer finally turned his charger and headed back to Edoras at a jog. Firefoot's chin and broad chest were flecked with foam and even he now welcomed the slower pace.

The air was still moist after days of rain, but palpably warmer than before. And though on the mountains winter had arrived for good, what was left of snow and hailstones on the plains was already turning into slush, melting rapidly in the soft breeze. Éomer felt content. Their herds would have access to grazing without being hampered by snow, and if they were lucky there would be little of it before January.

Falling back behind their king, the guards gave him the privacy he appreciated on these early morning rides to ponder and order his thoughts. He had sat late into the night, answering her letter in soothing and encouraging words and Cena would be on his way to Minas Tirith within the hour. He had read her letter over and over, making sure he understood her, responded to all the hints and eased her misgivings, but still he found it difficult to cope with her mentioning and worse, praising Radhruin of Pelargir.

He was not sure why it made his jealousy flare like that, and thinking rationally he had to admit that it even spoke in favour of her character to treat a rejected suitor fairly and admit his qualities, but reading Radhruin's name, he immediately saw the young noble's slightly arrogant face before his inner eye and felt his ire rise. In vain he tried to dismiss it as ridiculous, but the thought that she might have married that man had the circumstances been different made him feel cold and vulnerable.

Would she have been happy? Would she have developed the same passion for Radhruin, had he become her husband? She had told him that it had been Radhruin's father who had wanted the union, but at least the son had seemingly not been averse to it. Éomer thoughtfully sucked at the ends of his moustache. One of those arranged Gondorean marriages... but she had not been averse to it either. He shook his head. Such pondering was futile. Lothíriel had chosen him, not Radhruin. And she had made more than clear in her letters that she loved and wanted him, so there was no reason for all these ifs and buts. He had to stop this nonsense... and he had to shorten his moustache or he would soon choke on it.

But it proved more difficult than he liked to turn his thoughts in a different direction. Grudgingly he finally had to admit to himself that it was her praising Radhruin's deliberateness that itched him most. And he all too well knew why. Not only because it was something he lacked sometimes, but because it was exactly that character trait that Éowyn had praised in Faramir. He grimaced. Those perfect Gondoreans: bold warriors, keen strategists, good-looking, lords of renown and riches...

_Béma, he was getting pathetic again! _She could have chosen that Gondorean, that circumspect captain... But she had chosen him! And she had done so knowing about his battle-madness that had made him risk his entire army. And had not she herself risked her own and his life to worst Mardil? If there was anything like a piraty heritage in Imrahil's clan, obviously Lothíriel had inherited as many traits as her youngest brother. And any warrior, be he in the navy or ashore, needed a certain measure of recklessness to overcome hesitation or even fear before launching an attack. There was no fight without a risk... _And what a fine fighter she was! _

He frowned, shifting uneasily in the saddle. Perhaps it was the knowledge of her courage, her fearless actions that had made him squirm at her confession that she needed to be comforted. True, he had held her close while she had been crying out her distress and guilt on the battlements of Dol Amroth, but that had just been one short glimpse at something different from self-assured composure or deadly wrath.

Not for the first time he realised how much she resembled Éowyn, not in appearance, but in that composed bearing, that polite inscrutable facade hiding emotions fiercer that the fires of Mount Doom. His strong, fearless sister, who so seldom had let him see into her soul.

A sudden fear took him. Were Lothíriel's family as blind to her despair as he had been to Éowyn's, seeing only her composed face, smiling to ease her kin's sorrow, hiding her own fears and misgivings? Had he himself not expected her to cope with being queen, taking her capability for granted? Had Éowyn opened her heart to Faramir as Lothíriel had to him? What if Lothíriel felt similar despair, grown through the years as all around her simply demanded attention and strength from her without giving back anything to keep her soul alive and stable? True, she was loved and cherished by her family, but had not Éowyn been loved and cherished too and yet not until it had nearly been too late had he understood that her soul was about to succumb to the darkness and cold that had assailed her.

He shook his head, trying to free himself from that disquieting thought. It would not do to shift from one extreme to the opposite, from open admiration of Lothíriel's recklessness and courage to pampering and protecting her. Éowyn had always called him overprotective and had more than once complained to Théodred about him being worse that a mother hen. He would not make the same mistake again. Perhaps he had better talk to Erchirion to learn more about her moods and needs.

He dismissed that idea immediately. It was more than likely that she had told him more about herself than she had ever let her brother know. There probably was little to learn save the memories Erchirion had of his little sister's childhood, her pranks, the fun they had had. That had been his friend's constant topic when they had talked about their families, the loved ones they had left behind on their way to the Black Gate, trying to overcome despair as the land turned more bleak and hostile by the hour. And it had worked. He smiled wryly.

No, he did not need to ask anyone, she certainly had not held back much and had been most open about her feelings. And about her needs. She was strong and daring in more than just one way. Had she known what she had been doing, comparing him to fire and smoke, the symbol for uncontrolled emotion, be it wrath or passion? Could those things be so different in Gondor? He could not help the image that rose before his inner eye: dark glowing gems on the smooth cream-coloured skin of her throat. Gems he had kissed on skin he had kissed.

He cursed under his breath as his beginning arousal was making even a slow jog quite uncomfortable. And yet: how could any living man not get aroused, knowing to be wanted by such a woman? His thoughts wandered back to that letter that had him so totally undone only days ago, and he heaved a deep breath. What a letter! No wonder he had lost control like a green boy. His men would laugh their arses off if they knew and yet... Three months had passed now since the erection of the granary at Beaccotlif. Never since his sixteenth summer had he spend such a long time without the comforting company of a woman in his bed or at least in the stables.

He grinned wryly. Even if he wanted to change that now, there was no chance to find a woman to share his bed, as the people around him looked at him with superstitious admiration, the rumour that he had made a vow for his people's well-being having spread all over Edoras. Most certainly Éothain had had more than just a hand in that. And he knew that not only in Edoras it was whispered that the King abstained from the pleasures of the flesh, thus trying to wrench the promise of plenty and peace from the gods.

Again his lower teeth raked the tips of his moustache. What would they think if Gondor summoned them to war again before his wedding in March? Would his people blame him for it? Would they doubt his perseverance? But then: A threat to the southern borders of Gondor was no assault at the territory of the Mark. Yet Gondor was an alley, more so after the renewal of the Oath of Eorl, and no Eorling would stand back if Stoningland needed help.

And certainly there were enough men, both young hot-spurs and battle-tried Riders who would eagerly ride south, ardent for glory and loot. It was useless to close ones eyes to the latter fact. Though the Mark had lost heavily in men and horses during the War, the victorious survivors had brought back valuable pieces of booty and Gondor had not stinted on the wergild for the families of the fallen.

And with the young ones growing up without the permanent threats and assaults from Mordor there was a good chance that soon there would be enough hands to till all the fields again. And their herds would recover and multiply again... Only with difficulty did Éomer keep his thoughts from wandering off into fantasies of ripening barley, flowering gardens, orchards heavy with fruit and uncountable horses, roaming the plain of the Mark.

No doubt, a calling before spring might cause irritation and doubt amongst the people of the Mark.

_Béma, he sometimes hated his people's tendency to see a sign from the gods in nearly everything._

And yet he knew that he was not free from such tendencies himself. Unlike Éothain, who did not care much about old tales and beliefs, he sometimes felt like being caught in an invisible web that reached back to the ancient times.

But there were things and traditions that even prosaic and clear-thinking Éothain would not dream to doubt. Hengest Giefu for example or the Éoredheap...

Firefoot snorted in protest and Éomer realised that he had absentmindedly reined him in.

_The Éoredheap Segnung! _

What was he to do if he had to ride into battle before his wedding? If Lothíriel were of the Mark that would be no question, but as it was now, who would give him the Blessing? No doubt his councillors would not let him ride to Gondor unblessed. He cursed softly under his breath. No Rider would follow a captain, let alone a king whose soul was not anchored to the soil of the Mark. But on the other hand there would be those who would be afraid of the gods' wrath should he break the vow they believed him to have taken.

And as if that was not enough he had to deal with his bride, too. He grimaced. He had talked to Lothíriel about their tradition to bind a warrior to his land and people, to ensure that his soul would find the way home should he fall, and she had understood, had called it a warm-hearted ritual. But after her display of jealousy concerning his picture in her last letter he was not sure if she would tolerate him lying with another woman before setting off for Gondor.

_And what did he himself want? _

He heaved a deep breath. Apparently that was nothing that really mattered any more now that he was King of the Riddermark.

**ooo**

When they reached the stables there was no one to be seen, save old Cuthred, who pottered about in the tack room. Just as Éomer made to ask him about the whereabouts of the stable boys, the lads strolled in, wet and muddied. Seeing the king, they hastily exchanged the shovels and picks they were carrying for dung forks and buckets and shot off to clean out the various boxes.

"Bedric!"

Being addressed by his king, the boy swivelled round, springing to attention respectfully. "Sire?"

"Where have you been?"

Bedric shuffled his feet uneasily. "I'm sorry, we're a bit late, Sire, but it was just a few more buckets to finish the whole crap for good and so..."

Éomer frowned. "Stop prating and answer my question."

"Huh?" The lad stared at him. It took him a moment to realise what his king had actually asked, but when he had, he hurried to explain, looking pointedly at the tips of his boots. "You see, Éomer Cyning, as Winfrid had that accident, banged his head I mean, he isn't up to do any digging. And anyway it was our fault as much. We should have barged in earlier. We knew Hrothgar was needling him. Well, and they need a new bog anyway..." His voice petering out, the lad now was kicking the dust in front of his feet, not much different from an uneasy horse.

Éomer found it difficult to keep the stern facial expression. "Are you telling me you dug out the new latrine?

The boy nodded. "We finished today. When we learned the runt, I mean Winfrid, was out of action, we started doing one turn before work in the morning and another one after work in the evening. We'd have finished earlier, but that crap weather ..." He shot Éomer an uncertain glance.

"I bet you found the pit filled today. Or had you been clever enough to cover it before the rain set in?"

The boy met the king's ironic remark with a shrug. "Luckily it was only water and mud."

Éomer laughed. "Finish your morning chores and then go and have a mug of mulled cider. I'll tell Frithuswith to give you a special breakfast."

Grinning with delight, the stable boy grabbed his dung fork, and turning, shouted the king's offer to the other's. Whooping the lads sped up with their work, quickened by the promise of a plentiful meal.

Éomer led Firefox into his box to brush him down, when he overheard one of the boy's remark to old Cuthred. "Never you worry, ealder faeder, if the dragon gives us some sausages, I'll pinch one for you. Just stuff it down my tunic. She'll never know."

Smiling, Éomer let the currycomb scratch over the mud-encrusted flanks of his destrier. The people of the Mark might be superstitious, crude and simple, but he enjoyed that simplicity with all his heart.

**ooo**

Upon entering the kitchen, he found Master Calimab sitting on a stool in a corner, out of the way of the staff, his sketching-board on his knees, drawing the busy scene that played out before him. Frithuswith was nowhere to be seen, and fetching himself a bowl of porridge, Éomer went over to sit beside the carpenter and watch him drawing.

Some smaller pieces of vellum were already lying beside the stool, and going through them, Éomer found them to show a jumble of different faces, details of clothing, hands holding tools and kitchen items. A larger one showed the cook and one of the kitchen boys in front of the big hearth, while Calimab was working on a half-finished sketch of Ymma, pouring milk into low bowls that were to be set aside in the warmth to get soured. But there was no sign of Frithuswith in any of the sketches either.

The riddle of the housekeeper's absence was solved when Ymma came over to bring Éomer his usual breakfast ale. Thanking her, Éomer enquired: "Aren't you appointed to Erchirion's household?"

The woman laughed heartily. "Sure, but there's no use going over there that early. If he's not in bed with a hangover he certainly is in bed with a wench, and in both cases he doesn't need me."

Éomer frowned. He dearly liked Erchirion, but he could not help the impression that his friend's uptake rate of ale and women was quite excessive, even by Rohirric standards.

Seeing his frown, Ymma at once tried to calm him. "Never you fear, Éomer Cyning, he won't get into trouble. If he doesn't spend the evening with you but goes for a booze-up, he's always in the company of some Riders. The men like him a lot and would certainly accompany him even without Éothain's orders." She gave Éomer a big smile. "They say he's great fun to be with, as long as he doesn't try to sing."

Éomer blinked. "Éothain orders his men to go boozing with Erchirion?"

Ymma shrugged. "Not exactly. As far as I understood he told them not to let the prince frequent any tavern alone to keep him out of trouble."

"I see." Éomer did not know if he should frown or grin. "And does Éothain also select the wenches Erchirion beds to keep him out of trouble?"

"No," Ymma grinned, "that's Frithuswith's business."

"What?"

The woman laughed at Éomer's aghast face. "Well, Frithuswith likes Prince Erchirion, and therefore she has an eye on who tries to get into his bed."

Éomer groaned. "Don't you tell me the women first have to apply to Frithuswith."

"No, but there are a number of girls at the taverns that have got a "hands off" warning." Ymma grimaced. "And she took Osulf's youngest daughter by the ear when the girl tried to get next to Prince Erchirion and explained certain things." She shrugged. "He's exotic, Éomer Cyning, something the women of Edoras have not experienced yet and they compete to get into his bed." She grinned. "And why not? We had dark times and who knows what is to come? So let's use the chance as long as it's there."

Clearing his throat, Éomer tried to change the topic. "Where is Frithuswith?"

"Getting ready to pick up Winfrid from Underharrow. He's overdue, as the healers said he was to stay for a week, but with that storm there was no chance to go earlier."

"Send one of the kitchen-boys over to the guard-room and tell Folcred and a second guard to escort her. It might be best if Folcred's stallion is present, and let them take a spare horse. I don't know how fit Winfrid's sorrel is."

"Never you worry, everything is already arranged. Folcred is riding with me and we'll ride slowly on our way back."

Turning his head, he beheld Frithuswith, ready for the journey on horseback in breeches and top boots, carrying her cloak in a bundle under her arm, while her head was covered by a woollen cap.

"Folcred and who else? You know I want you to have two guards."

Frithuswith chuckled. "Berhtulf, who else? Our inseparable ones. I just wonder what Berhtulf will do when Folcred gets married next month. But fortunately he's marrying Berhtulf's sister, so at least things stay within the family."

Éomer grinned. It was a marvel how two men so totally different as the close-lipped and reserved Folcred and the talkative, bragging daredevil Berhtulf could be so close friends.

Ymma brought Frithuswith some provisions, wrapped in a clean cloth, and only when Frithuswith threw the cloak around her shoulders and fastened it with a large silver clasp, sporting the contorted body of a dragon etched into its brink did Éomer notice, how pointedly she ignored the Gondorean, who stared at her with undisguised admiration. And all of a sudden he realised that he should rather worry for Master Calimab than for his housekeeper.

Raising his mug to Frithuswith, he saluted her exit and then turned his gaze back to the carpenter's sketch board, a big grin spreading over his face as he beheld the latest addition to the drawings: the folds of a cloak, fastened with a dragon clasp. Stretching his long legs, he took a hearty swing. It would take the old craftsman more than a beautiful sketch to impress the dragon of Meduseld, and it would certainly be fun to watch his efforts.

In a few words he told Ymma about the breakfast for the stable lads when she came to refill his mug, and contentedly dozing in the warmth of the kitchen, he watched the women heap fresh bread, butter and cheese on two big trays, while the cook set a pot of cider on the hearth. Remembering Cuthred, he raised his voice: "And add some of the tender lamb sausages, Ymma, those one doesn't need teeth to eat."

The women's answering laughter rang out over the general noise, the delicious smell of newly baked bread wafting over from the oven... He heaved a deep breath.

_Béma, if he only had Lothíriel at he side, he would not mind being king of nothing more than this kitchen, filled with warmth and life._

**ooo**

King Elessar's missive arrived soon after sunset.


	20. Chapter 20

Thank you all for still being with this story. You have reached chapter twenty and the middle of December, and I'm afraid you and the Horselord will still have some time (and chapters ;-)) to go till March. (evil cackle!).

Special thanks to all of you who reviewed and gave me feedback, it is most welcome. I always try to tell myself I'm independent and my ego doesn't need to be stroked, but with 14°C in the middle of June every kind of comfort is necessary to keep believing that the sun is still shining.

This chapter is betaed, and I like to thank **Sep12 **for her work and patience with my errant commas and weird word order. Any mistakes you still find are my own and caused by the fact that I broke my glasses this afternoon when trying to deworm a ram who was somehow differently inclined.

I hope you will have fun reading nevertheless.

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><p><strong>Chapter 20<strong>

It took him an incredible amount of self-control not to kick any of the lords of the Mark as they dispersed in the hall after the first session of the Lords' Council, bowing reverently to him as they passed by. Nevertheless, even with him standing with regal posture, his mien giving away nothing of the wrath that flared inside him, those that knew him well could not fail to notice the king's murderous mood. Grinding his teeth, he breathed through his nose, trying to keep his temper even. He needed a moment to calm down, find his balance before rejoining the lords for the meal.

With a silent Éothain in tow, Éomer made for his rooms. Opening the door to his study, he found Erchirion waiting for him, happily munching one of the apples Frithuswith had put in a bowl on the sideboard, his large feet resting on Éomer's desk. They were covered in the typical footwear the Rohirrim favoured in winter: a mixture between sock and shoe made of sturdy felt and reaching well above the ankle. They were warm and convenient indoors, and as well kept the feet much warmer inside a riding boot than the foot rags that were normally used.

Following the king's gaze, Erchirion grinned. "You should send a pair to my sister, Éomer. She complains about cold feet all the time."

"I don't know the size of her feet." The moment he was saying that, Éomer wondered why he had risen to the bait.

Erchirion chuckled. "You really don't know anything about women, Brother. The size is not important. It's the notion that matters, not the practical value."

Éomer groaned and slumped down behind his desk. Having finished his apple, Erchirion walked over to the window to throw the core out. Closing the casement again, he turned with a broad grin. "So, oh mighty King of Horselords, when are we going to leave?"

"We are not going to leave at all," Éomer snapped.

Erchirion froze in mid-motion. "You're kidding, aren't you? You told me they had agreed..."

"You misunderstand," Éothain's quiet voice interrupted. "There is no doubt that the Mark will send the required Éoreds. The lords just refused to agree to the king leading them."

Sucking his teeth thoughtfully, Erchirion nodded. "The name of the Crossings of Poros doesn't sit well with the Sons of Eorl. No doubt Gondor will understand that."

There was Frithuswith's distinct rap at the door and then the housekeeper entered, carrying a tray with three filled tankards. "The servants are laying the table, Éomer King. Try to steam off in the next quarter of an hour and come back in time. It won't be advantageous to give the lords too much time and opportunity to talk unchecked amongst themselves."

Placing one of the tankards in front of his friend and king, Éothain assented. "You asked their opinion and you got it. As much as I agree with them, don't give them a chance to make it look as if they overruled you."

Angrily Éomer shoved the tankard off, the ale sloshing over his desk. "Aragorn is my friend, my brother in arms. He needs my help, and these petty-minded..."

"Keep your shirt on!" Totally unimpressed, Erchirion took a swig. "Gondor needs a functioning cavalry to secure the borders of Harondor, they don't need one being led by Rohan's king. The only thing that's important is that the forces arrive before mid-January."

"The lords certainly would take things easier if you already had begotten some heirs and spares," Éothain chimed in, reaching for his own tankard.

"Aye," Frithuswith agreed, "and if the bastards had not all put their money on you. It would be bloody inconvenient if you went to Harondor to get killed before your wedding."

Sitting at his desk, Éomer propped his head into his hands. "Can't you be serious for once? There's a civil war threatening in Harondor, Aragorn fears that Khand might use her influence on some war-lords of Near-Harad to exploit the situation and Umbar is reaching for the control of the southern coast, and you crack jokes about some fat-arsed lords' bets on my speed of procreation."

Frithuswith chuckled. "I don't care a horse's fart about the lords. It's the commoners' wagers I'm concerned about. And my own one not the least."

"And it's no open war, Éomer." Erchirion sat down opposite the king. "Elessar needs the Éoreds to back up the Swan Knights, that's all, if you look at it with fresh eyes.

Éomer grunted. "If things go awry..."

Erchirion shook his head. "No, Éomer. If there is any hint that it might get worse, Father will be able to get additional forces from Lebennin. The agreement with the lords of Harondor is quite fragile at the moment, and it would be a bad idea to have Rohirrim stationed there. They asked for help from Gondor. And Gondor wants them back for good. So all the Rohirrim will have to do is fill the gap that is left by the Gondorean forces that march into Harondor to secure the borders with Near Harad."

Frithuswith cleared her throat. "Don't forget the meal, boys. And you, Éomer King, should not forget that the Mark needs you, apart from putting bets on you that is. You are the last of Eorl's House."

"Woman, I may be, but I'm not Eorl's stallion!" Éomer did not care that his annoyance showed clearly. "There are other tasks a king has to fulfil besides siring offspring."

Rolling her eyes, Frithuswith made to leave the study. "There certainly are, Éomer, but you would be a damned fool to scorn one of the few kingly duties that are really fun."

She nearly collided with Elfhelm who was about to knock at the door when she opened it.

"I've talked to Erkenbrand." The Marshal of the Eastfold sat himself in one of the upholstered chairs and stretched his long legs. "The two of us would see it a clever move if you put me forward as Captain General of the forces that ride south."

Éomer snorted. "Who else? There are so many good reasons to give you the supreme command that no one of the lords would propose anybody else."

Elfhelm smiled wryly. "True, and therefore, if you propose it, all of them will agree."

Laughing, Erchirion raised his tankard in salute. "And thus the council will end with all the lords approving the king's nomination. And the incident of their disagreement in the morning will take a back seat."

Éomer frowned, but Elfhelm chose to ignore it. "You had better come into the Hall, Éomer. Don't let them think they have won over you and you are avoiding them."

With an angry snort, Éomer shove back his chair. "You too voted against me."

"Against you?" Elfhelm raised his eyebrows. "Éomer, you are no longer the Third Marshal. You are needed here, Éomer. The Mark identifies with you. We can't risk you in a simple skirmish in Gondor's southern outposts."

"This might well turn into more than a skirmish at Harondor's southern borders," Éomer insisted.

The marshal scratched his chin. "True, if Khand really is involved, the Éoreds at the Poros will have to move in to support Imrahil's forces, Lebennin and Lossarnach providing but foot soldiers. I'm not sure about Ithilien's prospects yet."

Éomer frowned. "We might do well to have reserves in readiness in the Eastemnet, as close to the Mehring stream as possible."

Elfhelm nodded. "Perhaps even garrison some Éoreds in Ithilien. But that needs to be talked over with King Elessar and Prince Faramir."

Erchirion shook his head. "As far as I understood King Elessar's letter, he rather wants to use the threat from Khand and Near Harad to secure Harondor's loyalty. I do not see Khand marching on Gondor at the moment, though that certainly will happen once they think themselves strong enough again. It's not only us who lost heavily in the last war. And Harad depends on Khand for larger amounts of cavalry."

With a wry grimace, Elfhelm turned to his king. "And that's exactly the problem, Éomer. Were the Mark's borders assailed, no lord would think for a single moment about having anybody else leading the Éoredheap but you. But you are not needed to secure Gondor's claim of territory in the south. Your place for now is in Edoras. And not only because of the people's wagering, as Frithuswith puts it. A king's duty is not restricted to leadership in war. Your people expect you to protect and to feed them."

Éomer passed his tankard to Elfhelm with a sigh. "I only know too well. I already feel like the hog they will spit for the Yule feast."

"Don't be afraid," Éothain laughed, "they won't go that far. As long as you have no heirs they'll rather take you for a breeding boar."

Grinning, Elfhelm rose. "Be that as it may. If we don't appear in the hall, we'll have to face Frithuswith's wrath, and certainly that is to be feared more than the united armies of Khand and Harad"

**ooo**

The flickering of the dying candle made him look up. Reluctantly Éomer put down the letter he had been reading and fetched a new candle from the sideboard. It was well after midnight, the Lords' Council having ended in a feast that most of the present lords had not only used to eat and drink abundantly, but also to forward the special concerns of their fiefs to the king's attention.

At least it was a soothing comfort that the Mark could afford to feast again, that barns and root-cellars, store-rooms and pantries were loaded and the grain for sowing in the coming spring was secured.

True, some people were still frowning at the southern grain, wheat, that needed different treatment at baking, but not a few, including himself, enjoyed the taste exceedingly. There were farmers near the Mehring who had been cultivating it for generations, but it needed richer soil and a longer period to ripen than the common barley. Perhaps it would be worth a try sowing at least some patches in every fief to see what would come of it. He softly chuckled to himself. _Feeding the people._ He certainly was adapting to his task.

He had been careful not to drink too much throughout the evening and had made sure to always have a half emptied mug at hand whenever one of the lords had approached him. He sighed, recalling his times as Third Marshal at Aldburg when he could get as drunk as he wanted in his own hall without any care. At least it was some comfort to think gleefully of the hangovers the different lords would have when leaving Edoras in the morning.

He had learned quite a lot, listening to the lords' drunken talk, as with the proceeding of the evening they had got more and more emotional. And no doubt he would get further information from Éothain, Erkenbrand and Elfhelm, as well as from the old fox Eáldread, who had followed his own example, staying sober, listening and encouraging their counterparts to to talk.

And there had been Frithuswith, passing unheeded amongst the crowds, serving ale and supervising the servants. Little ever escaped her notice, and her quick wit was not to be disesteemed. Had she not been the first one to notice the change in Gríma's bearing, long before Théoden King had started to ail and the counsellor's disastrous influence could not be remedied any more without causing a riot? He would not repeat the mistake of not listening to her advice and misgivings a second time.

He poured himself another mug, emptying the pitcher she had brought him when he had retreated to his rooms after the ending of the feast. She truly was a keen observer. Perhaps women in general were. Had Lothíriel herself not told him how important it was to keep ones eyes and ears open if one wanted to rule successfully, be it a household or a realm? The longer he was king, the more did he understand the truth of that attitude, and he did not like it.

Sitting down, he reached for the letter again, her last letter, her confession of weakness, and thus of ultimate trust and confidence. Ten days had passed since he had sent his answer. If everything had gone smoothly she might have got his letter and the blanket that day or at least would get it within the next two days. But there was close to no chance he would receive an answer before Yule. Only little more than two weeks till Yule, and after that the mustered Éoreds would assemble to ride south to guard the Crossings of Poros.

The official letter to inform the King of Gondor would be penned by Eáldread in the morning. He scratched his jawline. He had wanted to write a personal letter to Aragorn to go with it, at least some short note, explaining the events at the council, though he knew that Elfhelm was right, and Aragorn would not expect him to come personally. But as soon as he had sat down at his desk, it had been impossible to resist the temptation of Lothíriel's letters. He decided to write the note first thing in the morning. It would take the scribes hours to write down Eáldread's text in the elaborate lettering that was used in royal missives and Hereward would not be able to leave Edoras before noon anyway.

Smoothing out the paper, he started to read again, but he could not concentrate on the words he had already read so many times. How he wished she would be at his side, in his arms. Not so much for passion's sake, he realized, thinking the feeling rather odd, but to feel her, to be close to her, to talk to her about all the things that were whirling round and round in his head. She would understand his frustration at the turn his life had taken, his regret to have to deal with more than a decent strategy of defence or attack, training units and the integration of new Riders into his Éored.

He shook his head and reached for his mug. Even as a marshal his tasks had been more complicated than that, and as Lord of Aldburg he had been responsible for no small fief. And he certainly did not want the times of Gríma's influence back. If Lothíriel were at Meduseld, she would probably see straight through him and tell him he was being pathetic or would swat the back of his head like Éowyn had done when she had caught him _having a whinge_ as she used to call it. He chuckled at the image that suddenly sprang to his mind: His little sister swatting the dumbfounded Steward of Gondor. Perhaps that was what women were really for: To knock some sense into their menfolk from time to time. And preferably taking pity on them afterwards for having knocked them.

He took a swig, taking in his empty room. How nice would it be to have Lothíriel sitting in one of the chairs near the fireplace, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Just to look at her, to listen to her would be bliss, even if she scolded him. Certainly she was already sleeping, many leagues to the south, in that castle on the shores of the never silent sea... Perhaps she was dreaming, dreaming of him, wrapped in the double blanket. A sudden wave of yearning flooded his entire being. If he only could see her, listen to her breathing, stroke the night-coloured hair!

No more letters before Yule... He suddenly realised she too would get no other letter soon. If he waited for her answer, it would be well after the winter solstice before he would be able to send a courier to Minas Tirith. Most likely she would be there by then. But that meant that the Éoreds would reach Mundburg before he had told her that he was not going to lead the campaign at the Poros. _Béma, life could really be complicated._

Why not write a letter to her now, telling her about the Council and the results, about Edoras, his longing for her and his pathetic mood? At least it would give her the chance to swat him verbally in her next letter. And he could try to lighten her mood. That certainly would rub off on his own. He lit one more candle and reached for vellum and quill.

_Lothíriel, queen and wife of my dreams, _

_I hope this letter finds you in a balanced state of mind, as I intend to have a moan about life as a king and as a man in general. _

He imagined how she would rise her eyebrows in mock indignation, and grinning he added:

_No, I am not drunk this time, I stayed sober throughout the entire feast, but I miss you terribly. What about that offer in one of your letters to let me lay my head in your lap to rest? I would very much appreciate a little care and tenderness (Éowyn would bluntly call it "pity") at the moment. And I am even ready to promise to behave in the most civil way if you only listened to me._

Again he found himself imagining how nice it would be if she were present in person. He longed to see her face, hear her mocking remarks, her witty challenges. And he felt sure that though she would laugh at him, she would understand him. She was more than clever enough to be a partner in any dialogue. Had they not talked about serious things before and found out how similar they thought and felt despite all the cultural differences?

He noticed that his mood had changed from easy banter, mocking himself, to a more serious feeling, but he was sure that she would understand and welcome him in any mood. Dipping the quill again, he continued writing, well aware of the different direction his letter was taking.

_It was Lords' Council today, caused by King Elessar's missive, asking for the support for the Dol Amroth Swan Knights in the cause of Harondor. Most probably you already know more details about that than I; at least you will when this letter reaches you. It is a pity that any message takes so long now, but one look at the mountains makes clear that the high passage of the Dimholt is closed for good now._

_The council decided to send the requested Éoreds to Gondor, consisting of battle-hardened, experienced Riders, while holding nearly the same number in attendance near the southern borders of the Riddermark, but the lords insisted on sending Elfhelm as Captain General, not me. One argument was that the Gondorean forces were commanded by Prince Imrahil and not by King Elessar himself._

Reading what he had written, he frowned. There was no order in his letter, no structure, the unordered sentences mirroring the turmoil of his thoughts and feelings. He shrugged. He knew he was no good writer, and he truly felt as jumpy as his sentences. He could not help a grin, realising that were she here with him, he would probably talk exactly in that way and she would have to interrupt him and ask to make sense of his babble. But most probably all this would not have happened, had she been at his side.

_I know that all this, and many other things they said, makes sense, but I really felt miffed when they simply went against me in council. I can hear you in my mind, telling me I should have been more intelligent and cunning, giving more thought to their likely reaction beforehand. But alas: I am no chess player. Give me an enemy and a survey of the countryside and I will make you a most efficient plan of attack, but council talk... It certainly would not have happened if you had been here to keep me from pressing ahead unwisely. You see, I obviously need a queen of your mettle to make a good king._

Would she laugh at his antics? Or would she see through the applied humour and behold the bitterness he still felt deep inside? He assumed the latter.

_Without doubt I will be at the head of the forces of the Riddermark should war break out in earnest, though we all hope that that will not come to pass. It is strange that as much as I hope we will have times of peace ahead, I cannot bear the thought that others stand at the spot where the first blow might fall and not me. In my heart of hearts I still am a warrior, and I find it more than difficult to think in diplomatic dimensions._

He heaved a deep breath. At least the last paragraph made sense to him, and hopefully to her, too. But he had wanted to write her a letter to ease her heart, so certainly he should not continue in that tone. Absent-mindedly he scratched his jawline, before he decided on a bit more self-irony and teasing.

_And what makes it even worse to endure being overruled in council is the fact that there is no indulging wife waiting for me in my chambers to tend the wounds my pride and self-importance have suffered. I just hope you have not talked to my sister before this letter reaches you, because Éowyn will probably tell you that I don't need to be pitied and pampered but knocked over the head with a poker instead to start thinking clearly. She most certainly will fill your loving heart with thousands of misgivings about the oaf of a king you consented to marry, and I think I am very brave, encouraging you to visit her in Emyn Arnen._

Éowyn certainly would hit him over the head with a poker for the picture he created of her, but he found it quite close to the truth. And certainly it would make Lothíriel laugh. And how much he longed to see her laughing face! He could not hold up the funny mask any longer: He felt miserable without her, and he would let her know.

_I wish you were here, Lothíriel, with your witty banter, to help me laugh at myself and my pathetic mood. The situation around me is so strange, with preparation for the winter solstice and battle at the same time. And like I cannot stop the course of the sun I can do nothing to influence the events in Harondor. But being forced to sit and wait does not agree well with me. _

He tried to concentrate on what lay ahead of him: The preparation for the winter solstice, a Yule feast that would leave nothing to desire at least for his people. And who was he to complain. True, Lothíriel would not be there, and twelve Éoreds would ride south at the beginning of the new year, but nevertheless it would be so much better than last year.

_Gytha will be at Edoras for Yule, as I thought it a good opportunity to introduce her to the household. She will not take any position in Meduseld yet, but go back to Aldburg to live for some time with her grandparents, getting the education that befits her rank, but I wanted to introduce her before you come here. I know from Éowyn how important that event was for her when she was a young girl, and therefore I want Gytha to have the court's attention solely on herself, without people scrutinising how well she gets on with her father's wife and queen._

_Elfhelm told me that she is very excited, worrying that her new dress won't be ready on time. It is strange to see her as a young girl on the threshold of womanhood, when it seems that only yesterday she learned to sit her first pony. I thought of it, when I bought the silk for her in Minas Tirith, but I am quite overwhelmed by the simple fact now. I suppose I simply saw the silk, that green-golden hue, and I thought it would go nicely with the colour of her hair, but I did not realise what it would mean to her to wear such a dress._

He was sure Lothíriel would understand. She had smiled when he had told her about the silk and his wish to buy something special as well from Dol Amroth for his daughter. He smiled, remembering her grinning face when the next morning she had presented all those jars filled with different kinds of sweets typical of the Falas to him and that delicate girdle decorated with tiny seashells. She had called it a summer present from the sea... Perhaps he had better close his letter before he got moody again.

_Well, my léoflic scipflota, I am afraid you are marrying an old man. Just a handful of years and she will get married, and if you really make that wonderful, though unintended, promise true and give me six children, I might well be a grandfather before having fathered the last of my offspring._

_I hope for peace, my love, peace to see our people and our children live and grow in bliss._

_Dream of me, and let us meet in our dreams. Éomer_

The cold that slowly crept into his bones made him realize that he had let the fire go out. He sighed, passing the back of his hand over his eyes. He felt tired at last, tired and in a strange way comforted, his unrest and disappointment having taken wing while he concentrated on writing. At least his love was to get another letter before Yule.

* * *

><p><strong>Annotations:<strong>

**Crossings of Poros: **Site of a crucial battle against united forces from Harad and Khand in TA 2885. King Folcwine's twin sons Fastred and Folcred were slain there, fulfilling the Oath of Eorl, aiding Gondor.

**Éoredheap:**(Rohirric/Old English) cavalry, army

**Éored:**(Rohirric/Old English) cavalry unit, consisting of 120 Riders

**léoflic:** (Rohirric/Old English) beautiful

**scipflota: **(Rohirric/Old English) pirate


	21. Chapter 21

This chapter is quite short, so it comes a bit earlier! ;-) Thanks a lot to all of you, who are still with me and this story and a big hug for **sep** 12, who even with a lot of work made time to help me with the language.

Here's to all who have missed Winfrid. ;-)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 21<strong>

Stomping their feet in front of the side entrance to the kitchens, Éomer and his squire tried to rid their boots at least of most of the snow that clung to them. Overnight a thin dusting of flakes had covered Edoras and its surroundings, though with the current temperature there could be no doubt that it would melt fast as soon as the sun was up. Éomer gave the small figure beside him a scrutinising side glance. It had been the first time after his accident that Winfrid had accompanied his king on his morning rides, and Éomer was not sure if the boy was already up to it.

But all he could see in the dim light of the torch near the door was a handsome face, ruddy from cold and exercise that split into a broad grin as the opening of the door brought a waft of warm air and with it the delicious smell of freshly baked bread. The expression of delight immediately changed into one of utter concern though, when upon entering the large room they could hear the discontented wailing of a small child.

"Stop fussing now Lynet, and get your work done." Frithuswith's voice audibly had an angry strain. "Leofa is teething, and there is not much you can do."

Lynet was sitting on one of the benches near the wall, her crying daughter in her arms, and visibly close to crying herself. The little girl's face was tear-smeared and swollen, and she desperately tried to stuff her little fists into her mouth. Stroking and kissing her, Lynet desperately tried to calm her to no avail, until Winfrid went over and took the child out of her arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a lad of his age and standing. "Do your work, Lynet, lest Frithuswith gets angry. I'll hold her, while I'll have a bite."

Eyeing the boy warily, the child stopped crying, as if uncertain what to expect. Soon king and squire were served a bowl of porridge with cream and honey, and Winfrid tried to feed Leofa some of it. The toddler moved her tongue around the warm pap awkwardly, but eagerly attempted to chew the wooden spoon. Gently the boy made to feel her gums with his forefinger, only to be barked at by a rather irritated Frithuswith. "Get your dirty digits out of the child's mouth, will you? You are going to make things worse."

Giving the housekeeper an appraising side glance, Winfrid took the child and walked over to the hearth, were the women were picking the meat off a sheep's carcass that had been cooked the day before. Selecting a flat rib bone, he handed it to the child who immediately shoved it into her mouth and started to chew vigorously. Grinning he came back to take his seat besides Éomer again, the little girl covering his shoulder in slobber.

Reaching for his bowl, he started to eat again, trying to ignore the looks of the people around him. "How did you know about it?" Éomer finally asked, impressed by the effect the bone had on Leofa.

Winfrid swallowed a mouthful of porridge and explained: "Grandfather's lurchers used to have problems when changing their teeth, and they chewed anything, from boots to boards. Certainly there cannot be much difference between a whelp and a baby."

Frithuswith appeared at Éomer's side, bringing the king his usual breakfast ale. Looking at Leofa, she frowned. "We gave her a spoon to chew on, but she remained fidgety."

Éomer laughed. "Certainly a fat bone tastes better than some dry wood." He raised his mug to take a swig, when the child, seeing the mug, let go of the bone and stretched out her chubby arms, making little impatient noises.

"She's thirsty," Winfrid exclaimed, stating the obvious. Turning to Lynet, he asked her to fetch him some water, and watching Leofa gulp it greedily, he turned to the woman, shaking his head: "Lynet, how come she's that thirsty? Didn't you give her to drink today?"

To his utter dismay and to Éomer's surprise, the woman dropped down on her knees beside the bench and broke out in tears, covering her face with her hands, babbling incoherently in between her sobs. "I'm so sorry. Oh, poor you. I'm so sorry. He will be so angry. Why did I go? Oh, Dear, I'm so sorry. I did not mean to hurt you. It's all my fault. And he will be so angry."

"For Erce's sake, Lynet, shut up!" With a few swift steps, Frithuswith came up, grabbed Lynet's shoulders and shook her forcefully.

Éomer had never seen the old housekeeper that thin-nerved before, and he wondered what made her react like that. She certainly had dealt with more than one ailing child in her long life, let alone with nervous kitchen lasses.

Her mother's wailing caused Leofa to start crying again and Frithuswith angrily pulled Lynet to her feet. "Stop snivelling, you silly cow. She's teething and that naturally makes her thirsty. It's like that with all babies."

Yet Éomer could not help the impression that Frithuswith's statement was a bit too insistent, as if she was trying to convince herself. Something obviously was making the old housekeeper uneasy and twitchy.

"Be good and calm down, Lynet." Winfrid's voice was soft and calm, and yet it held an authority that did not match with his delicate frame. "You are upsetting Leofa."

Puzzled, Éomer looked at his squire, who had again gathered the little girl's body against his chest and was now patting her back softly, as if patting a scared pup. The wailing ebbed away, and Winfrid again offered her the bone, but Leofa just buried her face into the crook of his neck and seemed to doze off. Carefully the boy rose and put her into the case near the wall that served as her bed. The baby started to squirm again, but Winfrid sat down on the floor beside the box, and putting her on her belly, he continued patting her back. Soon she was soundly asleep, and the boy returned to his now cold porridge. Without a word, Frithuswith removed the bowl and motioned to one of the girls to fetch him a fresh and warm helping.

Éomer grinned. The old dragon was doubtlessly impressed. The atmosphere having lightened considerably, slowly the usual bustle of the kitchens set in again. On their bench they were well out of the way, and having finished his porridge, Éomer turned to his squire. "You're astonishingly good with babies, Winfrid. You truly put any nurse to shame."

Blushing profoundly, the boy swallowed to empty his rather full mouth before answering. "It's most easy, Sire. My grandfather always told me that you have to think like the dog or the horse you want to master." His blush deepened. "He dealt with dogs and horses, you know, but there is not much difference, as I said before. Especially if the child is too small to understand, I believe." He took another spoonful, before continuing. "Grandfather says that when we care for our animals we have to make them understand that we accept them into our herd or pack. The one we are the leader of. We feed them, groom them, stroke them... And we use the curry comb like a horse would use his teeth, nibbling a beloved partner's coat. And does not our stroking hand imitate the bitch's tongue, caressing her whelps?"

Éomer nodded. There was some truth in the rumours that Winfrid of Westfold could touch a horse's soul. "And the patting?" he asked, feeling intrigued in earnest.

"Ah, well..." Winfrid hesitated, shoving the last glob of porridge around in his bowl. It was obvious that it cost him quite an effort to continue, and when he finally did, his voice was a little shaky. " I was about five years old when I first understood that I had no mother. I mean, that she was not there. Grandmother told me then that she had died and that I had been born early. In simple words, so I could understand." He stopped, drawing a ragged breath. "I know it is stupid, but I had the idea then that she had left me because she did not love me. Ealder Modor found out, and she told me that my mother had loved me very much and had given me all the strength she could and only because of her love I lived."

The boy paused for a moment, looking at the bowl in front of him with unseeing eyes. "She said that as the drums call the dancers to the village square, a mother's heartbeat urges her child on to join the dance of life." He gave his king a shy side glance. "That's why at Erce's rituals the drums are beaten in the rhythm of a heartbeat. And my mother's heartbeat had been so strong and full of love that I had strength enough to live, even when being born two months before the natural date."

He clumsily put the last spoonful into his mouth and swallowed. "I wanted to give Leofa comfort and ease, and therefore I patted the rhythm of a steady heartbeat on her back. Lynet is too nervous herself at the moment, she can't comfort her child." He shrugged. "I suppose you have to imagine yourself in the other one's position to understand what they need."

Éomer nodded, but did not say anything. Frithuswith had been right, that boy certainly would be an expert counsellor in his time. If he only were not that small!

Silently Frithuswith stepped up behind them and put two small bowls with still warm stewed fruit in front of them, and Éomer was quite taken aback when he saw the the boy reach out and grab the old woman's hand. "Frithuswith." Winfrid's voice was little more than a whisper. "Frithuswith, you'll take care of them, won't you?"

The housekeeper sighed. "I'll do what I can, boy, but I'm afraid that won't be much. Life's a bitch, you know." She tousled the boy's hair and then left, taking the empty porridge bowls with her.

Slowly Éomer started to eat his fruit, pondering. Strange, how two people so different could be so alike: The young boy and the old woman, noble born and common, the midget and the tall Eorling, and yet, being both bereft by fate and having lived through hardship and sorrow had not made them hard, but strong and full of compassion for the weaker ones around them. He looked down at Winfrid, who was tucking in as eagerly as any lad still growing could do, and he could not help a grin. Given the amount of food he was consuming there certainly was a fair chance that Winfrid of Westfold would become quite tall.

**ooo**

He had just finished his letter to Aragorn when there was a knock at the door of his study. Expecting Eáldread with the official missive, he barked a short "cum in", but instead of the old counsellor Hereward entered, accompanied by a rather embarrassed Winfrid.

"Sire," The courier bowed respectfully and only now Éomer noticed the small scroll he held in his hand. Noticing his king's glance, Hereward fidgeted uneasily. "I'm having a problem, Sire." He cumbersomely cleared his throat. "You see, leaving around noon I would not make it further than Aldburg today." He hesitated, and Éomer raised a brow.

"Nobody expects you to, Hereward. How can that be a problem?"

"Well," The courier lifted the scroll now. "Winfrid asked me to take a letter for him to Aldburg and I agreed. But only when he handed it to me I learned that... "Again the errand rider paused, looking at his king an uneasily.

Éomer felt his patience grow thin. "Make it short, man. I haven't got all day."

Hereward swallowed. "It's addressed to your daughter, Sire."

"What?" The chair toppled over as Éomer rose. _That insolent whelp!_

The courier raised his hands in an attempt to calm him. "Winfrid assured me that it contained nothing dishonourable, and I'm convinced of that, Sire, but he also confessed that he had not asked your permission, and therefore..."

Angrily Éomer snatched the scroll from the courier's outstretched hand, shooting Winfrid a murderous glance. The boy was pale but met the king's eyes unwaveringly. The scroll was sealed with ordinary beeswax and bore no signet, just Winfrid's rune, scratched into the makeshift seal. Éomer removed it with one angry flick of his thumbnail and opened the scroll. The letter was short, the boy's hand slightly clumsy and irregular, but nevertheless clearly legible. He had cramped all he had written into the upper half of the vellum, and also his phrasing clearly showed the inexperienced writer.

_Westu Gytha Éomer's Dohtor hal._

_I hope this letter finds you well. I do not have much time. Hereward is leaving for Aldburg and he promised to carry a letter for me. Gytha, I need your help. That is I need Ceadda's help, but you have to tell him. It is because of Lynet. Frithuswith thinks she is with child again. Leofa is teething and crying all the time. And Lynet is crying because she fears that Ceadda will be angry because she did lay with the lads again. Please tell Ceadda. But do not tell him I told you to do so. Frithuswith says he has to make up his own mind and he is a stubborn mule. Make him come to Meduseld. Only he can help. Lynet is driving herself mad, and everybody else in the kitchen, too. Frithuswith does not know I am writing to you. How is your filly? Give her my regards. Please tell him soon. Winfrid Erwig's Son_

Éomer stood dumbfounded. _What had he expected?_ He realised that he had not even thought about that, but just reacted in a blind rage. Simply to gain time, he turned to pick up the chair, pondering the incidents in the kitchen he saw now in a completely different light. True, the baby was teething, but Lynet being pregnant again would explain her nervousness and fear... and Frithuswith's foul mood. It did not sit well with someone like the old housekeeper to watch a person she had taken under her wing go to the dogs. But what could she do? And Ceadda? After Frithuswith's bitter remark in the kitchen Éomer understood that Winfrid turned to the herder for help, but was it fair to burden the man with a halfwit, who was unable to see what was good for her? Sitting down again, he looked into his squire's pale face. "You should have informed me beforehand, Winfrid."

In the quietness of the room he could hear Hereward release the breath he had held.

"I had not realised, Sire." The boy's voice was tight, but his gaze was steady. "When I heard that Hereward was stopping at Aldburg I saw the chance to inform..." He hesitated, giving Hereward a quick side glance.

Éomer nodded. "I see. Next time you want to write to her, you will hand me the letter first. Should I not be here to check it, you will send any letter to Gytha to Marshal Elfhelm or Lady Hrodwyn. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Sire." The colour was coming back into Winfrid's cheeks, and Éomer dismissed him, before reaching for his quill. Spreading out the vellum, he made use of the empty space at the lower part of the page.

_Gytha Dohtor, be careful. Ceadda is a good man and he deserves his feelings not to be hurt. Winfrid is right to want to help, but there are things that cannot be forced. Give my regards to your grandparents and of course to Sundergiefu._

_Your father É._

_PS. Should you want to answer, your letter will have to be directed to me and I will pass it on. É._

Having sealed it with the royal signet, he handed the scroll back to Hereward, who took it with a relieved grin and left. Sucking his teeth, Éomer went over to the window. Certainly Frithuswith would have laughed her head off at his overreaction, but he did not feel like laughing at all.

He could not help thinking of an event more than seven years ago. By a hair's breath he had almost killed Fréalaf, nearly drowning him in the trough in the stable yard when he had learned that the young Rider had been sweet on Éowyn. He heaved a breath. He would have killed him had not Théodred intervened bodily. _That cursed rage!_ Rage fuelled by protectiveness... and perhaps by jealousy, the fear to lose her? He had known Fréalaf, had esteemed him, both for his personality and his skills, but the very moment he had come to know...

Éomer shook his head. He had been such an idiot, and Théodred had not failed to point that out to him. He had seen Fréalaf as the debaucher of his little innocent sister, not realising that not a few of the girls that shared his bed were even younger than her. To be told by Théodred that Éowyn welcomed Fréalaf's attention had been a worse blow than the one his cousin's fist had dealt him when he had refused to let the young Rider's head go. He simply had not been able to see that his sister was no longer the lonely child he had promised to care for.

He thoughtfully knocked his knuckles against his teeth. Théodred had been the one who understood her, not he, her elder brother. Théodred had been able to let her be, accept her, encourage her, whereas he himself had wanted to protect her from everything that might frighten her, without the slightest idea what that might be. Was he doing the same thing to Gytha now? But Gytha was twelve, not sixteen as Éowyn had been... She needed his protection. _But not from Winfrid!_ It was no use to deceive himself. He had lost control, been swept away by his anger, without using his brain. _Béma why did that always happen as soon as females of his family were involved?_

Éowyn had called him an overprotective cretin then, and it had been well that Théodred had taken Fréalaf into his personal service as his squire and thus removed him from the range of Éomer's jealousy. The heir to the throne had made clear he trusted his cousin's sweetheart, and Théoden King himself had been content, agreeing that they were to get married at Frealaf's coming of age. That had been the last summer before he had started to ail under the Worm's evil influence. Éomer sighed. They had had three years all in all, and most of that time Fréalaf had been in the Westfold, but Éowyn had stubbornly clung to him. Fréalaf Aedhelmaer's son... His youngest, who then had given his life protecting Théodred in that cursed ambush only a sennight before his wedding.

It had only been then, being confronted with Éowyn's reaction to Fréalaf's death that he had realised how deep his sister's love went. Even now, knowing she had found a new love that held her soul in balance, he felt a chill creep up his back, remembering her forlorn face, her stupor, her unseeing eyes. And he had felt guilty. Guilty for being the reason that she had been bereft of so many days of the short time fate had dealt out to their love. Guilty for her lover being in the Westfold in the first place...

He shook his head. All this brooding, these ifs and buts were futile. Three sons Aedhelmaer of Snowbourne had had, and all of them had perished in the years of strife, all of them fighting valiantly for the Mark. And only a broken leg had kept his grandson at home when the Riddermark had ridden to Mundburg's aid, young Edric, now heir of Snowbourne.

But he should not have jumped at the most absurd conclusion when Hereward had told him about Winfrid writing to Gytha. Sure, it was his right as her father to control her intercourse, but had he really expected his squire to have anything indecent in mind? A boy of fourteen years, more than busy with the breaking of his voice at the moment? He must have lost his mind. And Gytha: Not more than twelve, and though certainly tall for her age, still a child.

He sat down at his desk, propping his head with his hands. A part of him wished she would stay a child, the chubby, grinning hoyden with the too large mouth and the tousled red-golden locks, while the other part looked at her development with paternal pride, cherishing the glimpse of the woman she would be in a few years. Elfhelm's granddaughter: Keen-eyed, with the straightest eyebrows he had ever seen in a woman, and tall... He could not help the chuckle that rose inside him. _Béma, that would certainly have been a sight to behold: Gytha Éomer's Daughter, the tallest woman of the Mark and Winfrid Erwig's Son..._

He stopped abruptly, realising how that lad, already suffering because of his delicate frame, might feel in a few years, when the eyes of the lasses would hold disdain, or pity if they were kind. His abrupt rise caused the chair to topple over a second time within one hour. He had to find something to help Winfrid. Perhaps Erchirion's idea about sending him to Faramir was not a bad idea at all. Though the descendants of the Numenoreans were tall, there were so many different people in the south...

He shook his head. Again he was making the same mistake: Planning people's futures without knowing what they themselves wanted, just because he felt responsible. And perhaps Frithuswith was right and they just had to wait for Winfrid to find his own way. He grimaced. It was a lot of waiting he had to do lately.

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><p><strong>Annotations:<strong>

**Sundergiefu:** (Rohirric/Old English) Special gift. Gytha's filly. Ceadda's mare Hraefn, the foal's dam, is already old, and this foal, a sheer black, will most certainly be her last one. Therefore I thought that name to be quite plausible.


	22. Chapter 22

So here comes one more look into Frithuswith's den aka the kitchens of Meduseld, with a little special treat for all those of you who were disappointed that the kitchen lasses who manhandled poor Winfrid in the second chapter were not "taken to task" or "dropped in a midden" (quote: Camilla ;-)). Enjoy!

Thanks to all of you for your interest in my story, and a big hug for **sep 12** for helping me with the language though it was her birthday. **HAPPY BIRTHDAY AND TUSEN TAKK! **

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><p><strong>Chapter 22<strong>

It was late in the afternoon of the next day, the sun already low in the western sky, when Éomer saw them approaching the fords of the Snowbourn. Accompanied by Winfrid and Erchirion, he had been out since noon, selecting remounts for the royal stables. They were about to return to Edoras and he had meant to send a last glance over the plains, when he spotted the three horses, the foremost doubtless being Ceadda's distinct gelding. Another rider was following, leading the third horse.

"Winfrid!" He pointed over to the ford and boy's face split in a wide grin.

"He's fast, Sire, isn't he?" Reining in his horse, Winfrid halted at Éomer's side.

"He certainly is. And obviously Gytha was quite convincing." The king eyed his squire appraisingly. "Are you up to a gallop, Winfrid?"

The boy nodded. "I have made Strawbérie gallop over short distances these last three days to get him slowly back into training. And my head is fit, too."

Éomer nodded approvingly. "Then speed off to Meduseld and make sure that Lynet and the child are in the kitchen when he arrives."

While Winfrid took off cross-country, Osulf the stable master nudged his steed closer, his face in a smug grin. "I knew the old buzzard would come for her sooner or later. He was quite a safe bet."

Éomer gave him a wry glance. "Do I want to know?"

"Nothing unreasonable, Sire. I just bet a pitcher of good ale at Hengest Giefu that he would take her in before Yule." Osulf's grin deepened. "He was smitten with the child and quite horny for the mother. I thought he was already coming for her when he reappeared after Hengest Giefu and polished Hrothgar's big mouth."

Erchirion rode up to them, frowning when he saw Osulf grin. "Do you mind sharing the reason for your mirth?"

Éomer grimaced. "Remember the herder at Hengest Giefu?"

Erchirion raised an eyebrow. "The crass one, with the unintelligible East Emnet drawl and the fiery hair? Who barked at the kitchen lass with the baby?" He obviously remembered very well. But then, that day must have really been more than impressive for him.

Éomer nodded. "The same." With a jerk of his head he motioned towards the road. "He's obviously coming to take her and the child over to Aldburg."

Erchirion's glance wandered over to the riders and he shrugged. "I wouldn't be that sure if I were you. He can have a thousand reasons to come to Edoras."

Osulf shook his head. "Not with a spare horse in tow."

"And not with Mildburh accompanying him either." The riders were near enough now for Éomer to recognise the second rider for Ceadda's mother. He nudged Firefoot forward and the others followed him down to the road to meet the riders from Aldburg.

Ceadda and his mother had crossed the ford by now and were ascending the gentle slope that led up to the gates of Edoras. The two parties met before the road reached the foremost mound and the herder greeted his king with a bright grin. "Westu Éomer Cyning hal. How high was the wager you put on me that you are even awaiting me outside the gates?"

His mother bowed her head with a smile but did not say anything, and with a pang Éomer realised why he had been so ready to play along with Winfrid and Gytha. It had nothing to do with his responsibility as King or as the head of the Meduseld household, as he so eagerly had tried to convince himself. True, he felt sorry for Lynet, he had sympathy for Ceadda, understood Winfrid's concern... But in his heart of hearts he had to admit he had acted the children's accessory because it was like a step back into the days of his own childhood. Those years at Aldburg, before the terrible day they brought Éomund's hewn body home, his face mutilated nearly beyond recognition by an axe blow.

Those summers in Ceadda's company out on the plains, following his father's herds, with days that seemed endlessly sunny in his memories. And those nights under a star-strewn sky, drifting into sleep and dreams while listening to Mildburh's voice, singing the wordless songs of the plains, her voice raising and falling with the noises of the night around them, blending into his dreams as sleep finally took him.

He smiled at the herder. "I suppose everyone and their mother put a bet on you after Hengest Giefu, or at least after you came back to teach some stable hand manners. But I have no wager on you. Otherwise I would not have allowed Winfrid to write to Gytha."

Ceadda nodded. "He's quite a clever one that Westfold runt. What did you sent him off for? Warn Frithuswith?"

Éomer shook his head. "No, rather to make sure that Lynet and the child are in the kitchen to keep you from ransacking Meduseld. Frithuswith doesn't even know. But I'm sure she will be most relieved to have the woman taken off her hands."

"Whoa, Éomer Éomund's Son!" Ceadda interrupted. "I have not decided anything yet." Seeing Éomer's surprised face, he shrugged. "I put my mother into so much trouble when I took in Eadhild after Wystan's death, I won't do anything like that again." With a smile the tall man turned to his mother, giving her a friendly nod. "That's why I brought her with me. She is to decide whether she will be able to get along with the lass and the child... and the one that's obviously on the way."

"You should have taken her to Aldburg there and then, Ceadda," Osulf piped in, "you wanted the child the first moment you saw it."

"No." Mildburh's slightly hoarse voice interrupted the stable master resolutely. "He did well to take time to ponder, and he gave me time to think, too. We'll see. And if the lass is like he says, I will welcome her to my hearth."

"True, Mildburh," Osulf nodded his agreement, "But if she is really pregnant again, she will not be much help next summer, but rather burden you with two more small children, she herself being the fourth one."

Mildburh raised her eyebrows. "How much higher would your winnings have been had he come earlier, Osulf?" Giving the blushing stable master a wry look, she nudged her horse forward and continued towards the gates, leaving the men behind.

Osulf shook his head. "It's not like that, Ceadda, I swear. It was just that I was so bloody sure when I saw you eye that child..."

Ceadda shrugged and grimaced. "I'm afraid I'm quite easy to rumble. We'll see what Mother decides."

They made to follow Mildburh, and while Osulf rode besides Ceadda, the two men soon in a heated conversation about the quality of certain remounts, Erchirion appeared at Éomer's side. "Let's see what comes out of this. Perhaps poor Calimab might even get back into Frithuswith's grace and kitchen again."

"Calimab?" Éomer was clueless. "What about him?"

Erchirion chuckled. "He came to me some days ago to ask if he could accompany me to Minas Tirith when I leave with the Éoreds after Yule. The dragon chucked him out of the kitchens, accusing him of distracting the servants and committing a break of decency with his sketching."

"What?" Éomer frowned. "That doesn't sound like Frithuswith at all. Perhaps there was some misunderstanding. Frithuswith's Westron is far from perfect."

Erchirion shrugged. "I asked Ymma, and she confirmed that Frithuswith showed him the door."

"But why?" Éomer was at a loss. "All these mornings he did nothing but sit in a corner out of the way, drawing some pictures."

"Aye, that's it." Erchirion grinned. "He was not there though, while she was in Harrowdale to pick up Winfrid. Obviously found other interesting things to sketch. But as soon as the lady was back, the old fawner found his way into her den again. And then she caught him drawing her, without having asked her permission first." Erchirion's grin nearly split his face. "She gave him a piece of her mind quite bluntly, and now the poor bugger is afraid that a certain drawing of Théodred will find its way to Meduseld before he has left and she will have his hide."

Éomer shook his head. "She was impressed by his drawings, Erchirion. She said she would love to have one of Théodred. I can only imagine that she felt hurt because he did not ask her first. Well, perhaps she was upset because Lynet had again sneaked off to the stables while she was at Underharrow."

"Upset?" Erchirion snorted. "Ymma used quite a fitting simile to describe her temper: as charming as a warg with piles."

**ooo**

They dismounted in the yard before the royal stables, and Éomer turned to Mildburh. "Come, let the men care for the horses and have a look at mother and child before your fire-brand of a son turns up in the kitchen and rises the alarm."

The woman nodded, giving him one of her characteristic smiles and side by side they crossed the yard. Éomer looked at her from the corner of his eye. He had not seen her since he had come back to the Mark after the war and now he could not help the shock at noticing that she had got old. She still bore herself proud and erect, but he found her much too thin and could not help the feeling of worry. Though strong-boned she had always been lean, but now this leanness made her look rather haggard. She had never been a beauty, her features showing the bold straight lines of the East Emnet: prominent cheekbones, that typical thin-bridged nose, the determined chin... and her leanness brought them out even more. And yet that silent smile of hers that so often curved her thin lips and made her unusually bright, deep-set eyes sparkle swept away any impression of sternness.

They had nearly crossed the yard, when Éomer noticed her slight limp. He slowed his steps. "I'm sorry, Mildburh. You should have told me you have problems walking."

She shrugged. "It's just the years, Éomer King. My knees sometimes trouble me, especially with the cold." She grinned. "Nothing to keep me from following the herds in summer, mind you."

Nodding, Éomer proceeded on their way to the back-door of the Golden Hall. "If Lynet is really pregnant, she will have her child in midsummer..."

"So what?" The woman's eyebrows rose to the brim of her woollen cap. "Ceadda says she is sturdy and healthy. She won't be the first woman to have her child on the plains. And if you ask me, there is no better place to have your young ones." She chuckled. "I had all my five sons out there, and they all were healthy and strong."

Éomer swallowed. Five sons she had borne and raised on the plains of the East Emnet, and he remembered them well, all of them good and able men. And now only two of them still lived to protect her old age: Ceadda and Drythelm, her youngest, married to a farrier's daughter in the Folde.

Entering into the warmth of the kitchen they shed their cloaks, and nodding to Frithuswith, who was supervising the preparations for the evening meal, he led Mildburh over to the bench they usually took their breakfast on. He noticed Winfrid talking to Lynet at one of the large worktables while the woman was cutting roots that were to go into the stew. Leofa slept in her case, one of her cheeks still swollen. Mildburh gave Éomer an enquiring look and he nodded. Without a word she sat down, her eyes never leaving the sleeping child.

After a while, Frithuswith appeared, handing them bowls with chicken broth. Noticing Mildburh's glance, she pulled a stool close and sat down opposite them. "Teething," she explained in a hushed voice. "The upper third and fourth coming at the same time."

Mildburh nodded knowingly, but said nothing.

"She's a quiet and friendly child otherwise," Frithuswith continued, "And a sturdy one. Crawls like a whirlwind and even pulls herself up to stand at the age of nine months."

Mildburh smiled. "The mother?"

Frithuswith jerked her head to where Winfrid and Lynet were sitting, the woman busily chopping carrots while talking to the boy.

"Hm..." Mildburh's smile deepened. " Knows how to work while prattling, that one."

Frithuswith nodded. "A good and willing worker. And a temper as sweet as freshly baked bread. It's just..." She hesitated and sighed.

Intrigued Éomer watched the two old women interact. He was absolutely sure that Frithuswith knew who Mildburh was though he supposed she had never seen Ceadda's mother before. But she knew the herder well, as he frequently came over to Edoras, and one look at Mildburh's frame and features left no doubt of their close relation.

Slurping her soup, Mildburh let her eyes wander between mother and child, her face not giving away anything. Just when the silence was about to turn awkward the door opened, and Ceadda entered, still in cloak and cap, a gust of cold rushing in behind him. Raising her head, Lynet spotted him, and jumping up with a gasp, she let the knife fall and turned as if to run.

"Woman!" Ceadda's voice thundered through the kitchen.

Lynet froze and slowly turned towards him, her head hanging. Swiftly Winfrid stepped up beside her, whispering to her, until the herder had reached them and dismissed him with a short nod. With sudden embarrassment Éomer noticed that everybody present, including himself, were staring at the odd couple, curious about the outcome of their confrontation. For a moment he wondered what Ceadda's first visit to the kitchen might have been like, but then he was distracted by the noise Leofa made, stirring in the case as she woke.

Big cerulean eyes mustered them, and then the little girl rolled over, grabbing the edge of the case with both hands and pulling herself into a sitting position. Being used to all kinds of different people around her, she was not frightened or disturbed, but watched them with an open look, until her interest was caught by the bowl in Mildburh's hands.

"Mhum!" Falling forwards on hands and knees, Leofa speedily crawled to the lower end of her makeshift bed, and looking up at Mildburh, opened her mouth like a hungry little bird. Chuckling the woman filled her spoon and carefully blew over it to cool the soup before feeding it to the little girl who slurped it greedily and opened her mouth for more.

Éomer glanced over to Frithuswith. The old housekeeper's eyes followed every move of the herder's mother, relief visible on her face. Despite her still swollen face, Leofa was content after her nap and obviously the soup was much to her liking. Frithuswith stood to fetch another bowl, and Éomer glanced over to where Ceadda and Lynet stood, the woman still looking down at her feet, while the herder had put one hand on her shoulder and was talking to her quietly. As nothing special happened, everybody in the kitchen turned their attention back to the work at hand, and soon everything was back to normal. Winfrid sat down next to Éomer on the bench, having helped himself to a fill of chicken broth, and a little later Frithuswith joined them with another bowl for Mildburh.

Leofa had by now finished what had been left in the first one and gave the herder's mother a big grin when the woman teasingly prodded the little girl on the nose with the wooden spoon. Like ivory pincers, four teeth showed in Leofa's gums, two in each jaw, and while on the upper left side the edge of a growing tooth had already broken through, the right side was still swollen and red.

Mildburh made a hoarse and yet melodious sound deep in her throat, and with a pang Éomer realised how much this sound evoked memories of his childhood. Leofa giggled and grabbed the woman's garment to pull herself up. Holding the bowl with the soup out of the girl's reach, Mildburh started to eat her soup, softly crooning to the child in her raspy voice in between the single spoonfuls. Moving her knee slightly up and down she caused the child to wobble on chubby legs, which brought forth more giggles, until Leofa decided to clamp her teeth down on the folds of Mildburh's suede breeches.

"Stop that, Leofa! Let the woman eat in peace." Unnoticed, Lynet and Ceadda had approached, and blushing profoundly, Lynet tried to stop her daughter's actions. It was obvious that she had cried, but the brunt of her anguish having passed, her tears had been replaced by an insecure smile.

Ceadda chuckled. "That woman is my mother, Lynet, and she's used to being gnawed at by toddlers." His eyes sparkled, as he looked down at Mildburh. "She raised five sons, Lynet, and we were a terrible bunch."

Looking straight into the young woman's eyes, Mildburh gave her one of her soft smiles, and Éomer could not help smiling himself, seeing Lynet's face light up under its soothing influence. With that smile Mildburh had mastered not only her own rowdy bunch, but every child in the camp, including Éowyn and him. And not only children had been bewitched by it. It had been a marvel to see her husband, Acca, soften under her gaze, no matter with what foul a mood he had come in from the herds.

Now she looked up at the woman at her son's side, and giving her a friendly nod, she enquired: "You're with child again?"

Lynet shrugged. "I'm not sure, but I think so. My milk got low and Ceadda said..." Her voice petered out and she avoided the old woman's gaze.

Mildburh tilted her head. "Since when?"

Éomer marvelled at how she could make such a question sound so natural, so matter of fact and nearly casual, without any hint of rebuke or even curiosity.

Lynet looked down at her feet. "A sennight."

"Sure?" Mildburh glanced up at the young woman in front of her and then took another spoonful of soup.

"It was the only time I went over after Hengest Giefu."

She was telling the truth, Éomer was sure of that. That meant she had stayed away from the lads for nearly three months, probably until those days when neither Winfrid nor Frithuswith had been in Edoras. His pity for her deepened. She must have tried hard to obey the herder's order, frightened to cause harm to her child.

"Over? Where to?" Mildburh's voice was raspy and soft at the same time, reminding Éomer of a cat's tongue licking over bare skin.

"To the stables." Lynet's answer was scarcely audible.

"I see." Totally unperturbed, Mildburh busied herself with her soup, and seeming casual asked in between two spoonfuls: "And who did you lie with?"

Lynet shuffled her feet. "First with Bedric," she mumbled.

"First?" Ceadda's voice sounded irritated and Lynet ducked her head, visibly frightened again.

"Well, yes." Her hands nervously fumbled the hem of her apron. "I went over and … and Bedric..."

Again Mildburh made that noise, like a raspy humming and when Lynet looked at her uncertainly, the old woman asked quietly: "Did he come too fast, that one, and you needed another one?"

Éomer shot a quick side glance at Winfrid, who was sitting beside him on the bench, staring into the bowl in his lap as if the entire wisdom of Middle Earth had drowned in his soup. He could not but feel sympathy for the embarrassed boy, though he was quite sure Winfrid had heard worse in the barracks.

"No," Lynet finally answered Mildburh's question. "But Guthlac said I was unjust to lie with Bedric and not with him and..."

Éomer clenched his fist. _Why did the blokes always stop thinking once their cocks went stiff? _With an impatient snort Frithuswith rose from her stool. "I told you a thousand times..."

Mildburh raised a hand to stop the housekeeper's angry tirade, but before any of the women could say anything, it was Ceadda who spoke. "Lynet, it's a wife's duty to uphold her husband's dignity. Do you understand what that means?"

Avoiding his glance, Lynet frightfully shook her head. With a sigh, Ceadda scratched his beard before he finally spoke. "Woman, Lynet, look at me." Putting his large hand under her chin, he gently forced her to raise her head. "Woman, I promise I will protect you and your children. I will provide roof and hearth for you, feed you and … "

The herder glanced at his mother who had continued eating her soup and was now softly bobbing Leofa on her foot as if the ongoings were of no consequence to her, a faint smile curling the corners of her lips. "...and I will see to your womanly needs." Mildburh's smile deepened. "But woman," Ceadda's voice grew more insistent, " if you ever let any other bloke shag you, I will be very..." He hesitated and let go of her, as if doubting himself.

"Angry?" Lynet asked in a whisper, still not daring to look at him.

"No." Ceadda shook his head. "Or perhaps yes. Yes, I would be angry. Angry and disappointed. But first of all I would be sad, Lynet. Very sad. Do you understand that?"

Éomer felt uneasy and nearly as embarrassed as his squire watching them, like intruding into their privacy, but at the same time he was afraid to spoil everything if he now stood to leave the room.

Lynet stared at the herder, her eyes filling with big tears that slowly started to flow down her cheeks. "I don't want you to be sad," she whispered.

"Lynet." Mildburh leaned slightly forward, careful not to cause Leofa to topple over. "If you don't want to make him sad, why not make him happy?" Reaching out a bony but strong hand, she pulled the young woman close, whispering: "He's a good man, Lynet. He will care for you and your children and he will be happy if you care for him."

"But how? I don't know..." Lynet blushed, looking up at Ceadda uncertainly.

Mildburh chuckled. "Can you make bannocks?"

"Why, surely..." Lynet looked puzzled.

With an approving nod, Mildburh continued: "Can you feed the goats?"

"Yes..." Lynet hesitated before adding: "And I can milk the goats. And cows, too. And I know how to churn."

"That sounds fine." Mildburh lifted Leofa onto her lap. "Can you pluck a chicken and gut it?"

Lynet nodded. "I know how to gut chickens and ducks and rabbits."

The herder's mother cocked an eyebrow. "Cook?"

Lynet nodded eagerly. "I like cooking. I can cook a lot of things." She shot Frithuswith a worried glance. "Not all things. But I can try if you tell me."

Mildburh and her son exchanged a wink, before the old woman continued her questioning. "Can you keep the house clean?"

Lynet's started to smile. "Yes, I can sweep and scrub the floor, and strew white sand or rushes, and wash the tiles..." She stopped, looking at the herders mother with raising self-confidence. "And I can make the room smell nice with herbs, and wash and mend clothes. And I can sew." With a proud face she pointed at Leofa's simple garment. "I made the child's kirtle."

"See," Mildburh smiled at the young woman, "you know a lot of things that make a man happy. Keep him fed and clad, the house clean and nice... and if you do all this with a friendly face, he will be eager to come home to you and keep you company and your bed warm, and there'll be no need to sneak out into the stables if you're in heat."

"Come here, woman." Ceadda took Lynet's hand and squeezed it. "Lynet, I will try my very best to make you and your children happy. Will you promise to do all you can to be a good wife and make me happy?"

Lynet nodded, blushing unto her hairline.

"No stables, no other blokes?" His brows were furrowed, and Lynet's hand reached up to smooth the angry lines.

"I promise. I don't want to make you sad."

Ceadda laughed, and gathering her close, he led her towards Frithuswith's nook, winking at the housekeeper. "Don't worry for your sheets, Frithuswith. We'll stay decent. I just want a moment without gawkers."

Shaking her head, Frithuswith rose. "Well, I suppose that is as much of a proposal as she'll get from Ceadda. We had better get out the cups and the mead. At least we shall toast the couple."

Winfrid choked on his last spoonful of soup and Éomer patted his back. The boy's face was flushed, and he seemed utterly nervous. The distribution of the filled cups took some time and when they finally drank to the health of Lynet and Ceadda the boy drained his cup in one gulp, setting the empty cup aside with a shudder.

"Some wenches have all the luck," Éomer heard one of the scullery maids mutter, "Why, she's as dumb as a rusk, opens her legs to every git and gets a husband."

"Shut up!" Winfrid leaped up, his eyes flashing with rage. "Yes, she is dumb, but for all your cleverness no one of you had the courage to stand up against Sibley and Orva when they manhandled me. And no one of you was decent enough to at least get aid when they tried to get me drunk to make me slander the queen. It was Lynet who ran to the guards. She did, and none of you priggish lot. She is more decent than all of you together ever will be."

"Béma's horse, that Westfold terrier can bark!" A blushing but visibly happy Lynet in his arms, Ceadda reappeared in the kitchen, utterly enjoying himself. "Sibley and Orva you say? Orva, that seven foot, twenty stone she-troll and that bitchy friend of hers?"

"You know them?" Frithuswith was the one to voice their general surprise.

Ceadda shook his head. "No, and I certainly have no desire to come to know them after what I learned about them. But I overheard two traders in the tavern at Aldburg the night before yesterday. They talked about two women of that name."

"And what did they say?" Winfrid's face was pale now, and only two angry spots high on his cheekbones were betraying his hardly controlled fury.

Ceadda grinned. "Well, the troll married the swineherd's son and the bitch got branded for theft and perjury."

"What? Where? When? Why?" Not only Frithuswith's mouth gaped in surprise, and the complete kitchen staff now closed in on Ceadda, asking him for further information.

"Over at Beornheard's farm-stead, one day's ride east of Aldburg, where there is the new station for the King's Messengers on the road to Mundburg. Beornheard had put them up when they came beginning of October, claiming to be evacuees from the Westfold. Seems the troll started working in the piggery and got sweet on the swineherd's son."

"Orva?" The cook's voice sounded audibly disgusted. "Who would like to shag such a hunk of a woman?"

Ceadda shrugged. "Who knows. Tastes differ, not only as far as bonking goes, and I think that fellow is no beau either. But be that as it may. One night the bloke turned up in the room the two women shared, and the next morning a purse with coin Beornheard had put into a certain drawer to pay I don't know what the next day was missing. They found the purse in the bloke's bag. Empty. He swore he had not left Orva's bed, but no one believed him. Sibley stated to have slept in the dairy-maids's room, to leave the bed she normally shared with Orva to the lovers, and the maids confirmed that. So they locked the troll's sweetheart up in the root-cellar to bring him before the headman the next day. Well, and when they went to bed that night, Orva notice that her companion was hiding a small pouch tied to her waistband under her skirts. So she pretended to need a piss and went and told the farmer and his wife. And that's the end of it." The herder grinned. "Once the swineherd's son was set free, he declared he would marry Orva, who was happy to get him, and Sibley was branded for theft and for placing the empty purse in the poor bugger's bag."

"And where is she now?" Winfrid's voice was hoarse, plainly on the brink of cracking.

"Went further east as far as I have been told, but not before she had got a well deserved thrashing from her former friend, too, for falsely accusing her swain." Ceadda grimaced. "She would not have liked to stay I think, even if they had let her." With a grin he turned to Frithuswith. "Well, draca frouwe, what about a cup of mead for me and my betrothed now?"

Frithuswith snorted, but nevertheless rose to fill the cup they were to share herself. Taking a hearty gulp, Ceadda passed the cup to Lynet. "Drink, woman. Tomorrow morning we'll be off to Aldburg, and tomorrow night you can show me how good a wife you are and how well you can warm my bed."

Éomer suppressed a sigh. _Why did these things have to be so much more complicated for him? _It was only when he heard Frithuswith and Mildburh chuckle that he realised he had been staring at the couple in front of him with undisguised envy.

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><p><strong>Annotations:<strong>

When I wrote about Mildburh,** "singing the wordless songs of the plains",** I was imagining her song to be somewhat like the **joik** of the **Sami** people of northern Europe.

**draca: **(Rohirric(Old English) dragon

**frouwe: **(Rohirric(Old English) woman/mistress


	23. Chapter 23

So summer has come at last, even in the lowlands of Northern Germany, which means making hay and stowing 25kg bales in the hayloft … no work for short, fat, old women :-(. Why not venting my frustration on my characters, especially on one Horselord and make him sweat, too – even if it is winter in the Mark? ;-)

Who knows, he might even find a sympathetic soul amongst all of you, who still keep reading this story. I would like to thank all of you, especially those who take the trouble to leave a comment. With all the work at the moment I have to admit I really needed the feedback to keep me going.

And as always **special thanks to sep12 **for helping me with the language. I hope you are enjoying your holidays.

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><p><strong>Chapter 23<strong>

"Éomer King." Winfrid's voice caused Éomer to snap out of his thoughts. They were sitting on their accustomed bench in the kitchen after their early morning ride, the usual bowls of porridge in their hands.

"What is it, Winfrid?"

The boy heaved a breath. "Sire, I would like to ask your leave to accompany Prince Erchirion to Gondor when the Éoreds ride south after the Yule festivities."

"You … what?" Éomer was flabbergasted. _Did the boy really think of joining the army?_

A profound blush spread over the Winfrid's face. "I talked to the prince during weapon training some days ago, Sire, and he suggested... "

Éomer felt irritated, realising that things were being taken out of his hands. And yet he had to admit that Erchirion was right to show the boy a possible road, while he himself had hesitated longer than was good for the lad.

"So Prince Erchirion suggested you should go to Gondor?" He hoped that his irritation did not show in his voice.

"Not exactly." Nervously, Winfrid fiddled with his spoon. "He suggested I should give up sword training and switch to daggers. I pointed out to him that knife-fighting was regarded as a lowly practise, not fit for a lord's son, but he didn't agree. He told me that though also in Gondor the sword was seen as a symbol of lordship, there were respected units of the forces where other weapons were used, depending on the terrain these units were fighting in."

"You decided to go training in Gondor?" Asking the boy between two spoonfuls, Éomer managed to make his voice sound casual.

Winfrid shrugged. "I want at least to have a look to make up my mind. Prince Erchirion said that they use shortswords, or rather sabres and daggers, in the navy, where there is no room to fight with sword and shield and quickness of motion is essential."

"You think of joining the navy?" Éomer frowned. _King or no king, Sigward would have his hide if __he learned that his grandson was out at sea._

But again Winfrid shook his head. "I don't think so. I saw the warships at Dol Amroth and I cannot imagine myself on one of them."

Éomer suppressed a sigh of relief.

"But the prince also told me about the Rangers of Ithilien... " Again there was obvious hesitation in the boy's voice.

The king turned towards the lad, facing him thoughtfully. "Winfrid, what are you really interested in?"

Again the undecided shrug. "A thousand things, Sire. But most of all to learn new things."

"Why then don't you become a scholar? The Mark has need of learned men, more so, as the times are changing fast and we soon will be confronted with all kinds of negotiations..."

"I'm afraid you've got me wrong, Sire," the boy interrupted him. "I'm not interested in books, though I do not disregard what they can teach. But what I was thinking of is rather to experience new things." Winfrid's brows furrowed in the attempt to explain himself. "You see, it's like with freshly baked bread. You smell it and you want to eat it." His hands fidgeted with the bowl. "I want to find out how things work and why." He paused, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. "There are so many things I'm interested in, so many I would like to learn about." He looked up with a wistful smile. "I suppose I had not realised how much I had already learned at home before Firefoot. And then in Dol Amroth, when I overcame my fear and disappointment and tried with him what had worked with my pony..." His voice petered out and he shrugged. "Things have changed a lot since then."

Éomer nodded. "They certainly have. You have matured a lot, Winfrid." To Éomer's surprise the boy snorted instead of being flattered by his king's approval.

"Matured, yes. But not grown. See?" The boy pointed at his feet that did not fully reach the ground.

Éomer's jaw muscles bulged. _Why of all lads did this one have to be thus handicapped? _He cleared his throat. "Winfrid, be that as it may, you can't solve that problem by running away from it. You have to face it."

The boy laughed mirthlessly. "I'm not running away, Sire, for wherever I go, I'm taking my problem with me. All I am looking for is..." He paused. "I have to find my own way, Sire. I'm not sure yet what will become of me, but I know that..." His hands and shoulders rose in an undecided movement.

"Lad, you are intelligent, and you should not dismiss a possible future as a scholar and perhaps councillor lightly. And that would be a proper profession for a lord's son."

Winfrid shook his head determinedly. "No. I don't want to become soft and pale from sitting indoors like those courtiers at Dol Amroth, who seem to have their bodies only to flaunt the expensive garments they wear. I want to use my body, Sire." His face flushed with embarrassment, the boy looked at Éomer. "I like the exercise, the sparring. Even if I sometimes feel afterwards as if every single bone in my frame has been broken. And I could not do without horses. I need the space, the air..." He shrugged. "I know I cannot become a warrior, but still … If there is a way I can fight, I want to try it." He heaved a breath. "Prince Erchirion said they have the finest wielders of daggers in Gondor, and that's why I want to go there."

Éomer put his porridge bowl down. "Winfrid, your grandfather made me your mund, but I would not like you to leave Edoras before I have informed him about your decision. And I would like you to be sure about it. Think it over at least for some more days. Has the Mark nothing to offer you?"

"It's not like that, Sire. I don't think about going to Gondor for good, to settle there. But I would like to see Ithilien, the woods, learn about the Rangers. I can imagine them to be much like our scouts, though I can't really imagine a scout without a horse. But the woods...I really would like to see those woods." Now a true smile spread over the boy's face. "I like woods. Grandfather used to take me to the woods on the western slopes of Thrihyrne. That was splendid."

Éomer laughed at the boy's enthusiasm. "Well, Winfrid Erwig's son, then you shall go to Emyn Arnen to see the woods of Ithilien. And to shorten the waiting time, you shall accompany me to the woods of Néahwudu tomorrow, when the King's Guard will go on a battue for boar for the Yule feast."

**ooo**

When Éomer came in from the bathhouse in the late afternoon of the next day, a grinning Frithuswith directed his attention to the Gondorean errand rider who sat at one of the long tables, gobbling down a large fill of chitlings, while the present servant girls looked at him appraisingly. _News from Aragorn?Any complications in Harondor? _Éomer raked both hands through his still damp hair. He was not inclined to let anything spoil his high spirits. The battue had been more than successful. A sounder of eight boars they had run to earth and there would be roasted meat for everyone in Edoras for Yule. Five more days till the feast, the weather being cold enough for the meat to hang before the boars would be roasted on spits in the different neighbourhoods of the town. And tonight they would feast on chitlings.

One of the girls whispered something into the Gondorean's ear, and dropping his spoon, the man grabbed his messenger's satchel to approach the king, bowing respectfully. Éomer's heartbeat sped up when he saw the distinct beige paper; a rather thick letter, accompanied by a small parcel wrapped in waxed cloth, both bearing Lothíriel's signet. Dismissing the man to his meal, Éomer clutched parcel and letter and made for his rooms.

For a moment he felt uncertain what to open first, but remembering her last letter, he decided on the parcel. Cutting the cords that held the waxed cloth, he removed the outer wrapping. Underneath another linen wrapping appeared, and when he removed that, he touched the contents, still unsure what it was. Soft fabric... not silk... yet much softer than linen. He shook out the folded cloth and gasped. He held a shirt in his hands, of such a fine thread that he found it impossible to believe that anything that delicate could be woven. The garment was of a soft golden green and fell in an abundance of small folds from the seams at the shoulders, hem, cuffs and the band collar sporting rich embroidery in shining threads of green and gold: horses' heads and the sun of the Riddermark.

Without thinking, he gathered it in his hands and buried his face in it, breathing in the faint smell of sandalwood that clung to the fabric. And then he could not help a grin. _The pirate's payback._ For sending her a blanket she gifted him with an exquisite shirt. Sitting down at his desk, the shirt in his lap, he eagerly opened the letter. Seven pages! Seven pages in her distinct hand... and another, smaller letter hidden between the pages. He swallowed and reached for the smaller letter. There was a note on it: _Read the other letter first._ He grinned ruefully. She certainly knew what he would do after his experiences with separately sealed small letters in her correspondence. Putting it in his lap with the shirt, he started to read.

_Éomer, my love_

_I still hesitate to pen down the word husband, and yet it seems so true and fitting. Not only because you call me your wife in your letter, but because there is no one I feel as close to as you. Your letters and your beautiful gift arrived yesterday, and while I sit and in vain try to order my thoughts to write something sensible, I am still wrapped in its warmth and softness. As always when I write to you I do not know where to start, as there are so many things I want to tell you. And yet, most of all I just wish to be held by you, snuggling into the comfort and security of your embrace._

_Your two letters are so different, and I wish I could fall in with the banter, the fun, the passion of your first one, but I'm afraid I will once again need your care and patience. You showed so much of them in your second letter, and I feel I should have qualms coming back to you with my sorrow and hurt, but I am sure you will understand. Do not get me wrong and worry, Dear. Everything is all right now, but we all spent some terrible days and poor Sídhríl no doubt suffered the most. I still tremble when I think of all that has passed, and the fact that I tremble with wrath, not least at my mother's attitude, gnaws at my conscience. But I cannot help it. _

_Sídhríl gave birth four days ago, and it was only yesterday in the morning that the healers declared she will live. The baby was breech and the midwives had to turn it in her womb. I will spare you the details, but never have I thought it possible for any woman to bear that much pain and lose that much blood. Mother and I were with her all the time, and I still reprimand myself for not having insisted on going against the midwives' orders. And I cannot forgive Mother for not doing so. When they had turned the baby, Sídhríl was so weak that we all feared she would die before giving birth, and I suppose she herself felt the same, for she demanded to see Elphir. And the midwives refused! I did not understand then why they did so, but as my mother agreed with them and tried to calm Sídhríl, I stayed quiet. _

_The child was delivered soon, despite my poor sister's weak condition. You cannot imagine my shock when I first saw my newly born nephew, for I truly believed him to be dead, his skin being a bluish grey and the poor mite all covered in blood, but with the midwives' treatment he soon recovered, something that unfortunately can not be said about Sídhríl. And still, only after they had taken care of mother and child and cleaned away all the soiled and bloodied sheets did the midwives allow her husband to enter the room._

_I stayed with her for several hours and only then had the chance to talk to Mother alone. I asked her why the midwives had refused to call Elphir, as I believed it would have been helpful for Sídhríl if she had had her husband's support. Mother then admitted that it was due to the superstitious belief that the child's health might be harmed if the father was present at the delivery. I simply lost my temper and yelled at her. _

_Éomer, I have never done anything like that in all my life, and I still feel so bad about it, all the more so, as she started to cry and explained that she too believed it to be nonsense, but she had been afraid that with mother and child being in such dire straits the blame might be put on her if one or both of them died. _

_I feel so torn. My head understands her, but my heart still cannot forgive her. Had I but known, I would have dragged my brother into the room, even if I had had to carry him or knock him out first! _

_Do they have anything like that in Rohan? I will ask your sister when I meet her in January. We probably will not be there before Mettare as Mother wants to wait some more days to make sure that Sídhríl is really recovering. She does all she can for Sídhríl, and yet I still cannot meet her without feeling disappointed. And what makes the whole situation worse: I overheard Elphir yesterday, explaining to his wife that as much as he regretted it, even if he had known that she had asked to see him, he would not have been able to go against the orders of the midwives, as that might have caused rumours about his behaviour endangering his wife and child and might have led to enmity with her family had something happened to her or the child._

_Their marriage was an arranged one, suggested by Lord Denethor, mainly to put aside the age old differences between Linhir and Dol Amroth, as he wanted to unite Gondor to be able to withstand the threats of the East better. I know he cares for her, I know he cherishes her, and I do believe he loves her... And to react like that!_

_My sophisticated brother Elphir! To put the affairs of state before his wife's needs! I would understand it, if it had been some spleen of hers, some mood, nothing serious. But she thought she was dying. Dying giving birth to his child! I wish Father had been here, he would have interfered! At least I hope so. But then I would never have believed my mother capable of backing off from a decision she believed correct only because of the possible consequences._

_Would you have stayed away had it been me? My head is still swimming. Perhaps I am wrong, perhaps I am idolizing you, transforming you into a god-like being that has no faults, loves me and answers to all my needs and desires. But no. I know something like that would be stupid. I know you are a man, though a very special one. I know you have faults, though I have not spied them yet. And I know for certain that there will come times and situations when you will not be able to care for what I feel and want, even if you wanted to, because are a king, a leader of your people and you are sworn to them. And yet, in my heart of hearts I believe, no, I know, had it been me, giving birth to your child, you would not have cared for beliefs or rules, for propriety or politics but would have come to my side against all odds._

_Am I judging them too hard? Perhaps I am, but all this has stirred me so deeply ... _

He let the letter sink, feeling stunned by what she had written. He had read her letter with rising alarm, his head swimming with the news she shared, his heart aching at the thought that he had not been at her side. And yet he could not help the feeling of possessive giddiness at her display of love and trust. Thanks to Erce, mother and child had survived and seemed to be well. Murmuring the sacred words under his breath, he continued reading.

_Éomer, there is something else I need to tell you, something I did not talk about to anybody. I simply could not, after what I had learned about their behaviour. I do not want them to see me weak, do not want their pity. But I need to talk about it or I will go crazy. I know you will understand me and my stupid reaction, and I feel as if the blanket that I am wrapped in, your blanket, is giving me comfort and strength to go through with it._

_I had a nightmare after the talk to Mother. I know that my nerves were overwrought, I know that I was tired out after not having slept during the night, and I do not believe that is it foreboding in any way. It is just the result of all the things I experienced and my physical and mental exhaustion, but it terrified me so much that I did not dare to sleep for two nights after it. I watched over Sídhríl instead, and only dozed a bit during the day._

_I dreamt it had been me, giving birth. Giving birth to a stillborn child. I do not remember who assisted me, as they were all somehow faceless shapes, but they put the naked dead baby in my arms without a word, a little cold body, the skin the same greyish hue as poor Sídhríl's child. I knew he was dead and nobody cared. I wanted to scream, to call you to help me, but no sound would come out of my mouth. And then I saw you in the distance, but you did not see me. You were on some kind of snow-covered plain, looking strangely distracted and disorientated. I tried to get up, run over to you, but I could not move. And then I fortunately woke._

He stared at the letter. _Erce have mercy! _Was it really only her overwrought mind that had caused that nightmare? He shook his head at the sudden fear that assailed him. He knew about those kinds of dreams in the wake of battles. And certainly childbirth was not called the women's battle for nothing. So obviously it meant not more than what Lothíriel herself thought of it. There were only a few more sentences on the next page, and then she seemed to have started a new letter.

_I was so afraid that the dream might repeat itself, despite all the plausible reasons I came up with to myself, and therefore I tried to forego sleep. And then your letters and the blanket arrived, and I felt as if suddenly a safe anchorage had appeared in all my mental turmoil. I read your letters wrapped in the blanket, and still clutching the parchment I fell asleep. And I slept soundly and undisturbed, wrapped in the soft warmth and the knowledge that the very fabric that encircled me had encircled your body._

He heaved a breath. At least his present seemed to have arrived at the right time. And it seemed to be the right present, too. _Gondoreans and their stupid customs! _If he could have had it his way, they would have been married for months already and there would have been no need to send any blankets. Putting the already read pages on the desk, he turned to the second letter.

_Dear Éomer,_

_A whole day has passed since the beginning of this letter and as I had time to calm down I asked myself if I should send you the first part of this letter at all. But I realised I want you to know, even if it does not show me and my family in a favourable light. And even if you do not agree with me. I do not know anything concerning the traditions and rituals at childbirth in the Mark, as that is not a topic I would like to discuss with Beorhtraed. I do not expect him to know much about it in the first place either. So it might well be that my rantings are seen as totally unreasonable in the Mark, but I would rather discuss different points of view, even if it might lead to a clash between us than hide this experience, these feelings and my opinion from you._

_We will share our lives. And how can we do that without opening our minds to each other? I do not mean to come running to you, whining about every little mishap in my life, but as I am ready to stand at your side in good and in bad times, facing whatever fate brings, there will be times when I will need your love and care, to be strong enough to face and endure what is dealt out to me. I need the feeling that I can be open with you, that you will be open with me, come what may._

He had to stop reading, feeling his throat tighten in a treacherous way. _His pirate! His wife!_ Overwhelmed by her openness, her trust in him, he swallowed, steadying himself before reading on.

_It is late already, I have been to visit Sídhríl. She seems to be improving fast, and the child has developed into a lovely chubby boy. It is a wonder what a handful of days do to the appearance of a newborn. I remember our first conversation, when we talked about newborn babies on the beach of Tol Cobas. You claimed they were beautiful and I did not realise you were talking about your daughter. _

_I will send Gytha a letter and a present with the same messenger. Mother and I were sorting out the Dol Amroth jewellery to decide what I was to take with me, and suddenly a rather delicate pendant caught my eye. I thought its colour would match nicely with the silk you bought for Gytha in Minas Tirith... and I am sure with her hair too, as it is a peridot of lucent green set in gold. _

_I am too tired to write more, my love, but I will continue first thing tomorrow morning. Elphir is awaiting King Elessar's courier with news concerning the negotiations with Harondor any day, and I want to have this letter ready to be taken to Minas Tirith. The letter and the present for you I have been working at all these months. I wonder if you already had a look at it as you are reading this. It is lawn made of cotton, not of linen, as I wanted it to be softer, though it is more difficult to sew and embroider soft cloth. It took me that long because I worked only in the evenings, when I was alone, thinking about you, about us. I did not want it to be gawked at by anyone, did not want anybody to talk about it. It is my personal present for you, and I want this to stay between you and me._

He read the passage again, his left hand clutching the shirt. _She had made it, thinking of him. _He felt the sudden urge to put it on, but there were still more pages, obviously the letter she had written the next morning, and then there was the small one, sealed separately... He decided to read the letters first.

_I am off to bed, still shaken with Mother's and Elphir's behaviour, though Sídhríl told me she thinks they are right and she should not have asked for her husband in the first place, knowing the traditions. I cannot help feeling like being stabbed in the back. Mind you, I am ready to honour customs and traditions, as I believe that they mirror a people's soul, but is it not every intelligent person's duty to change traditions that only bring sorrow?_

_I know too well that I have already pestered you with that idea, but at least for now I will leave you in peace and go to snuggle into the softness and warmth of your blanket once more._

_I wish you were here. L._

Looking at the next letter he realized that the script was not as careful as usual, as if she had written in a hurry or with an unsteady hand, and his heartbeat sped up with worry. But his solicitude died down, as soon as he read her first words.

_Éomer. _

_I feel like I cannot do else but whisper your name. Éomer, my golden warrior, strong and tender at the same time, clear as a sunny sky in the morning and yet a miracle as deep as the sea._

_Éomer, I dreamt of you. I do not remember any details, but I know you were in my dreams and while I am writing this I still feel my heart beating like a drum, fast and hard, rapping the rhythm to the most ancient of dances. I feel giddy with joy. Éomer, I dreamt of you, and I remember your touch, the heat of your body, your voice. Everything was a blur of unbounded passion, causing me to float and yet I felt safe in the care of your love._

Reading the passage again, he smiled. She certainly was a hardy one, if two nights of undisturbed sleep sufficed to make her overcome a nightmare that had disturbed her so deeply. _His warrior_ _queen! Strong and passionate... dreaming of him.._. He felt his body respond and he clenched his teeth. He would read her letters first, and then he would put on her shirt... With some effort he stopped the rising lust-flooded daydream and focussed again on her letter.

_The sun has not risen yet, and again I am sitting at my desk, wrapped in your blanket. I have read your letters again and again, and as I am recovering from the general exhaustion, I feel like whooping with laughter. Do you know what the people around me would say if they ever came to know what you did? And you certainly are a barbarian to tell me. I will never be able to get the picture of you, wrapped in this blanket out of my mind. And I dare say that is exactly what you intended! But do not expect me to shy at a challenge. You know I would not, do you? And what about you? Will you give me a chance to draw level? To pay you back for your gift and the love and dreams it gives me?For I mean to challenge you, though I know that in winning I will lose, my only aim being to take you with me going down._

He stared at the letter, shaking his head. Was she really referring to what he thought? Or was it just his heated imagination? Her next sentence eliminated any doubt.

_Éomer, if you are not alone, stop reading now. If you are, will you do what I ask you to do? Will you do what I imagine you to be doing while I'm writing this? Oh, I think you will._

He was back in the heat of a summer afternoon in Dol Amroth, in the fluttering shade of the old plane tree, the woman he desired standing in front of him, demanding him to close his eyes... _What would she demand this time? _He read on, squeezed his eyes shut and read again. _Béma, he was not going to last till he had finished this letter! _Clutching the soft fabric of her present, he read a third time.

_So, first of all, put on the shirt I made for you. - No, let me say it differently: undress, cast off any garment that covers your body and put on my shirt, smooth its folds to your chest, your belly... feel the softness of its touch, the smell of the fabric... and now open the small letter, my love._

Snatching one of the candles that burned on his desk, he went over to the adjoining bedroom, the shirt and the letter pressed to his chest. Putting letter and candle on the bedside table, he started to comply with her request, a strange kind of reluctance mixing with his eagerness, as his clothes fell. Like when he had closed his eyes in Imrahil's garden, he felt insecure and vulnerable. _Did she know what she was doing to him? And what really was she doing? Had she not made him feel her own uncertainty then, being shocked by her own daring?_He pulled the soft shirt over his head. There were no lacings, but three oblong pieces of polished wood that went through loops. He smoothed out the folds, closing his eyes at the sensation the touch of the fabric caused. The room was cold, the fire not having been lit yet, and he slipped under the covers, taking the small letter with him. He swallowed, his whole body tense with anticipation. _Would she describe her dream? _He clenched his teeth, feeling his erection jerk at the mere thought and broke the seal. And having started to read, there was nothing to stop him.

_Éomer... _

_Only to think your name causes me to shudder with need and anticipation. Are you wearing my shirt? I imagine you do, the picture rising before my inner eye._

_Éomer, my love, I am wearing it while I am writing this – wore it tonight, wanting to give back the caressing touch of your blanket. That blanket you wrapped yourself in before sending it to me, thus sending the image of your embrace with the fabric, to wrap my body and soul in the tenderness of your love. To think that the cloth has touched your bare skin makes me weak with desire – so incredibly weak, hot and melting... But I will not let you do such a thing to me unchallenged. I will avenge myself, and my revenge will be cruel and sweet._

_Did you feel likewise torn with desire and passion when you wrapped yourself in it, imagining how its soft folds would cling to my nakedness? Like that, you are wearing my shirt now, are wearing me: my touch, my smell, my desire._

_I dreamt of you, wrapped in your blanket, wearing this shirt. And though I do not remember any details... I know that you took me in that dream, for waking I still felt myself throbbing for you._

_I regarded myself in the mirror last night in that shirt and only then did I realise how thin the fabric really is, and I wished that you could see me, clad in your shirt like in a semi-transparent cloud of passion._

_I am still wearing it, feeling the cloth brush against my breasts and I think of your hands touching me, sending flashes of desire through my body, causing my spine to arch. Éomer, I need you. I need you so much!_

_Do you have a mirror? But you do not need one, for I will be your mirror and in my eyes you shall see your beauty, my golden warrior. _

_Does you body shine through the garment like mine does? I try to imagine what you look like, wonder what colour that dusting of hair is that I felt under my hands when I caressed your chest in the shade of the plane tree … and your nipples that pebbled under my touch._

_Should I be ashamed of what I write? I will not be! Never! For does not my body desire what my soul craves for: to be one with you and share the core of my very existence with you? Oh, I know only too well that I would never dare to say aloud what I write here - nay, I would not even dare to whisper those confessions of wanton lust. It is the silence of the paper that makes me bold, and yet I wish you to remember my voice reading the words._

_Éomer, I am yours. I am yours for you took me in my dreams, hidden in the dark of night, and now in the rising light of day I proudly stand and claim you as mine. Husband! _

_May the Valar protect you and guide your dreams. Lothíriel._

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><p><strong>Annotations: <strong>

**mund:** (Rohirric/Old English) wardship

**Néahwudu:** (Rohirric/Old English) literally: the neighbouring wood


	24. Chapter 24

I was really overwhelmed by all your kind comments on the last chapter and would like to thank all of you very much. Unfortunately with the new review policies of this site, reviewers who have not logged in will not be mentioned by their name any more. That caused me some problems, as I was not able to thank a number of you, though I suppose to have recognised some, e.g. Freyalyn, who I think was the one who mentioned spinning a Manx fleece at the moment. :-) And I also think I spotted Silverswath, but unfortunately I can't be sure. So all of you who don't want to bother with logging in: Please, just leave a name or a monogram with your comment, so I can thank you personally .

Many, many thanks as always to** sep12** for her patience with my (ab)use of the English language. :-)

So here comes the next chapter, which might disappoint those of you who wait for more Lothíriel/Éomer romance, but provides a very informative look at the different skeletons in the cupboards of the Golden Hall.;-)

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><p><strong>Chapter 24<strong>

"Blimey, that boy will be the death of me! Answer one of his questions and he will come up with two more instead." Taking a hearty swig, Erchirion stretched his legs, watching Winfrid cross the hall to where Master Calimab sat, sketching one of the tapestries. They were sitting in the hall, enjoying a tankard of ale after the morning's sparring while waiting for a light meal to be served for lunch.

Éomer chuckled. "It's quite unfair then to send him over to pester Calimab. The poor bugger is downcast enough for having fallen out of Frithuswith's grace."

With a mischievous grin, Erchirion shook his head. "Quite the contrary, Brother. Frithuswith loves Winfrid, and seeing Calimab being friendly with the boy might even mellow her heart... At least a little bit."

Eyeing his friend over his tankard, Éomer grimaced. "You take it for granted that Calimab will be friendly. I would be doubtful about that. You yourself found it difficult to stay patient with all his questions."

Erchirion shook his head. "The old peacock loves attention. He will never tire to tell the boy about every single cobble in the pavement of Minas Tirith."

Éomer raised his eyebrows. "I didn't even know he had ever been there."

"Oh, that bloke travelled a lot in his youth, always working with the best masters. He's a splendid draughtsman and shipwright, but his true love is certainly carving."

Winfrid had reached the old carpenter by now, and Éomer saw the surprise at being addressed in the old man's face change to a delighted smile as the boy apparently brought forth his request: information about Minas Tirith, Mundburg the Mighty, the town they would be travelling to soon after Yule. Éomer could not help a smile. The boy was as eager as a hunting terrier on the scent of a fox._"I want to learn new things."_ It was more than obvious that he really wanted to.

"Calimab has a sister, married to a painter and engraver in Minas Tirith," Erchirion continued. "Who knows, the boy might be interested in that, too. That chap soaks up knowledge like a sponge."

Nodding approvingly, Éomer raised his tankard. "He certainly does. It's a pity he's that small."

"Oh fuck it all, just stop whining, will you?" Erchirion set his tankard on the table with a distinct thud, glaring at his friend. " The boy's fine, man. A bit small, I'll give you that, but he's clever, he's quick. And he's only fourteen. He will certainly grow some more. Mind you, I've seen real midgets at a fair in Pelargir. The relation of limbs to body is totally different with them, unbalanced somehow." Erchirion took another swig. "Perhaps he'll not reach normal height, but he's neither frail nor weak. He's eager to fight, and he'll do fine with daggers." Grinning, Erchirion put down his tankard again. "Just wait some more years. That lad has such a grace and determination, he'll simply melt the lasses' hearts, not to talk about other parts of their anatomy."

His disbelief evident, Éomer shoved his now empty tankard off. "You're joking!"

Erchirion's grin turned positively wicked. "No, Horselord, I'm not. Believe me. He's handsome, and though he'll be smaller than most men, he'll please the women's eyes." Seeing Éomer's scepticism, Erchirion clouted him on the shoulder. "Brother, any experienced woman will tell you that it's not the size that makes the man but the technique."

"True." Frithuswith's voice nearly made Éomer jump. He had not heard her approach in the general noise of the hall. Smirking, she refilled their tankards, shaking her head when she saw that Winfrid had sat down beside Calimab, the old man pointing at one of the tapestries and obviously explaining something to the boy. "I don't know what will become of him, Éomer Cyning, but you have to let him go to find his own way." She gave him a sad smile. "You sometimes tend to sit on the people you love to protect them, and you don't realize that thus you keep them from breathing. You had better learn to stop that before the queen arrives."

Raising his tankard to her in a mocking salute, Erchirion laughed. "Don't you worry, Frithuswith, he won't find it easy to sit on my sister. She's of the bucking kind."

Frithuswith's eyebrows rose to her hairline, while she in vain tried to hide her grin. "Don't tell him, my lord, he might find it intriguing." After a wink at Erchirion, the old housekeeper proceeded down the hall, leaving the friends to themselves.

Erchirion obviously had understood Frithuswith's address, though she had spoken Rohirric. He still preferred to address people in Westron, but Éomer was surprised how well Imrahil's son understood the tongue of the Mark after quite a short time in Edoras. When he told Erchirion so, the Gondorean laughed. "I have no choice but to learn it. Though it feels as if I'm learning three different languages instead of one."

Seeing Éomer's enquiring look, he explained: "First, there was that scribe who taught me what I would call the official language, but now there is the warriors' lingo at training and in the taverns. And once I'm at home, there is Ymma teaching me what is necessary to know about every day life."

"Ymma?" Éomer's surprise showed plainly. "But you said that you knew you were to keep your hands off her."

Chortling, Erchirion nodded. "Certainly! My hands as well as any other digit, if I'm not eager to have them chopped off with a kitchen hatchet. She's an absolute no nonsense person, but mind you, she's a very good teacher. I think I know every household item in Rohirric by now. I sometimes didn't even know the names in Westron and had to ask Calimab." He shrugged. "She teaches me Rohirric and I teach her Westron and we get along perfectly well. You don't know how good it feels to have at least one woman around you, who you can talk sense with, as she no way is interested in getting into your bed."

"Poor you!" Éomer grimaced. "Now I see through you: You ride off to war to take a rest and recover from the demanding tasks of a man's life in the Mark. I bet your poor cock got rather worn down if only half of the rumours I heard about you are true."

Laughing, Erchirion took his friend's mocking in his stride. "You're so right, Brother. You'd better hurry to find me a fierce woman to marry and settle down with, one who will protect me from all these exhausting requests."

"Sire."

Absorbed in their banter they had not noticed Éothain approach, followed by a rider in the livery of Gondor. Bowing respectfully, the courier delivered his messages, two letters and a carefully wrapped flat parcel, and for a split second Éomer's heartbeat sped up at the sight of beige paper, but the script on the letters clearly was not Lothíriel's distinct hand. While one of them was addressed in the usual Tengwar with its rounded, flowing letters, the other was labelled in the bold, angular ones of the Cirth.

Éomer smiled. His sister certainly used a quill with the same force as a sword. Turning the letter, he beheld her signet, and his smile deepened. Faramir had designed an emblem for his wife, the White Lady of Ithilien: A naked sword, crossed by a flower with deep red petals on a white field. Her signet showed sword and flower, and certainly only few people knew that the stylised blossom was no rose, as most supposed, but a glacier crowfoot, Snábrýd in the language of the Mark. The other letter bore Faramir's signet.

Having dismissed the Gondorean errand rider, Éothain had fetched himself a tankard of ale and now sat down at their table. "Are you not going to open them?" A jerk of his head indicated at the letters.

Éomer nodded. "As you two can keep each other company now..." Her reached for Éowyn's letter and broke the seal.

The letter was rather short, but then writing had never been one of Éowyn's favourite occupations.

_Dear Brother,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. Faramir found the picture you asked for, and I think Frithuswith will be delighted, but my husband feels very ambiguous about it and even thought about asking you not to tell her that it was sketched as a present for Boromir. As if Frithuswith did not know about the two of them! But perhaps Faramir is right and it had better not be spread about. Not that I suppose that Frithuswith would ever talk about it. _

_Well, beautiful and truly life-like as it is, Théodred's picture is not why I write. _

_Éomer, Éomund's son of the Riddermark, you are going to be an uncle at the end of May. _

He stopped reading, letting the news sink in. The end of May... They had truly been fast. But that would mean that probably Éowyn would not be able to be at his wedding the end of March. He shook his head. With the trouble at Gondor's southern borders they were not even sure if he was going to get married in March at all.

"Anything wrong?" Éothain's expression was worried, and also Erchirion looked at him with concern."

"No." He shook his head. "Quite the contrary. Éowyn is with child, and the folder seems to hold the picture of Théodred."

"Is she?" Éothain's face split in a broad grin. "And when is she due?"

Éomer growled. "How much did you bet on her, you insolent twit of a Captain?"

Unfazed by his friend and king, Éothain gave him a smug grin. "A week's pay that she will give birth to her first child before midsummer."

"You're going to bet yourself out of house and home. Though you are lucky this time. She's due the end of May."

Éothain shrugged. "I know a safe bet, Éomer." He raised his tankard. "I trust in the house of Eorl."

Shaking his head, Éomer turned his attention back to Éowyn's letter. He did not really want to know how high a wager his friend had put on him and Lothíriel.

_Your bride will stay with us after Yule. Faramir is utterly delighted, and has been telling me quite a lot of things about this cousin of his. I have to admit I'm really curious, especially after the letter she wrote to me. She seems to be truly interested in the fate of the Mark and eager to learn as much as possible about daily life and traditions. _

_Faramir will be in Minas Tirith after Yule, and then be positioned as a coordinator at the Crossings of the Poros, but during the campaign he might spend some time at home, as Gondor's armies will use both the south Road and the Harad Road to bring forces south, and Emyn Arnen lies closer to the latter, so it will be a kind of command centre for the necessary supplies. _

_I hope things will get sorted out fast. _

_Give a big hug to Frithuswith. _

_Your sister, Éowyn, Éomund's Dohtor_

Putting down the letter, he reached for the other one. Opening it he was surprised to find it only marginally longer than Éowyn's. Realising that less than four months ago he would not have wasted the slightest thought at the length of any letter, he found it hard not to grin. And to imagine how long those he himself had written were... Not only had written, but had wanted to write... He shook his head and started reading.

_Dear Brother,_

_As Éowyn has already informed you about her being with child, there is little more that I can tell you in this regard, except that I am exceedingly happy. My fierce and beautiful wife is downright mocking me for my fussing and worries, but I am sure that at least you will understand that I would not like her to ride all the way to Edoras in her seventh month._

_At the moment she is determined to be present at your wedding to my cousin, but I do have the hope that she changes her mind once she is so far advanced in her pregnancy._

_Lothíriel wrote to her, and we are looking forward to having her with us in Emyn Arnen after Mettare. I am convinced that the two of them will get along splendidly._

_Éomer, the folder contains the sketch you asked for. I had to ponder for some time, where Boromir might have hidden it, for from what you told me I was certain that he would have kept it secret._

_I will not bother you with details, but I think the old carpenter was quite right in his assessment. But I will not jump to a conclusion, as Éowyn is convinced that Frithuswith will like the picture._

_I'm sending it to you to decide if you think it fit to be given to the woman who certainly was as close to him as a mother, but I beg you to keep my brother's name out of the entire affair. He was not known as a lover of men in Gondor and I do not want his name slandered, more so, as I know how deep his feelings for Prince Théodred went. No one in Gondor would admit that between men there could be love and desire in a true and pure way, but just see the carnal act they pretend to abhor._

_I know that Boromir deeply loved Théodred and knowing the different attitudes in Gondor and Rohan I often wondered if the prince realised my brother's devotion or thought of their relation merely as a warrior's easement. I never dared to speak about my qualms to Boromir, lest I add to his sorrow, for he truly suffered being parted from his lover for most of the time._

Éomer stopped reading, staring at the letter in disbelief. Théodred and Boromir... lovers? Could that really be? True, they had been comfortable in each other's company, and been close friends, brothers... but lovers? Had they not been to Céapham together more than once … His throat went dry as he realised. _Edith! _Suddenly he saw the entire farce she had put up on his way to Beaccotlif in a totally different light. _"...__ good and honest men, ashamed to play act like this, but as long as those oafs downstairs have their old idiotic images of what makes a true leader, it's the likes of me their names depend on."_ Only now he realised that he had never seen any of the camp-followers in Théodred's tent... but on the other hand, there never had been any of the lads either. He blinked. Obviously there had been no other but the Steward's son for Théodred. And from what Faramir wrote, Boromir must have felt likewise. _Lovers... _He shook his head and read on.

_But at least concerning that, my heart is at ease now, for seeing Calimab's sketch I feel to have had such a picture made for my brother, their love must have been mutual, and my brother's affection certainly was not only much appreciated but indeed returned. _

_I hope I have made myself understood. It is not prissiness or inhibition that makes me ask you to be careful, but love and esteem for my departed brother. I am convinced you will do the right thing._

_Your brother, Faramir_

Folding the letter, he carefully tucked it away in his tunic before picking up his sister's letter and the parcel. "Come on." With a jerk of his head he motioned to his friends to follow him. "We'd better have a look at the picture in my study."

Taking their tankards with them, they left the hall, and soon sat around Éomer's desk, Éothain and Erchirion watching curiously as Éomer cautiously unwrapped the folder. He finally opened it, looked at the sketch before him and felt his breath catch. Calimab had not used the delicate silver point on vellum, but some other kind of pen, darker, nearly black with a slightly metallic shimmer, thus highlighting the contrast to the paper he had drawn on and emphasising the boldness of the picture itself. Peeking over his shoulder, Erchirion gave a low whistle. Wordlessly Éomer shoved the sketch over to Éothain, not at all surprised to see his friend's eyebrows rise to his hairline after a short glimpse at it.

Erchirion chuckled. "Blimey, if I were a woman that picture surely would get me wet."

"Yeah... " Éothain hesitated, drawing out the word. "You just keep forgetting that this was meant as a picture for Boromir."

With an energetic move of his hand, Erchirion brushed aside Éothain's objection. "Bollocks. Who knows? Man, this sketch is the Gondorean dream of a Rohir, and a nightmare for most Gondorean males, I dare say. Positively causing their balls to shrivel with envy." He stared at the picture, utterly fascinated, his lips curled in an approving grin.

"You mean..." Éomer stared at the picture. _Was that really how the Gondoreans saw them?_

Calimab had told the truth, the sketch did not show anything indecent, just Théodred holding his vicious beast of a destrier at the bridle, the massive black frame of the unsaddled horse taking nearly two thirds on the left of the sheet. Théodred had been portrayed standing at the shoulder of the stallion, facing the beholder, both horse and man a breathtaking display of untamed maleness and beauty. Éomer's hand itched to touch the shimmering coat of the horse, almost sure he would feel the heat emanating from the bulging muscles if he did. _How could anything drawn be so lifelike?_

Looking up he met Éothain's gaze, his friend's disbelief mirroring his own. "Béma's balls." Éothain's voice was hoarse. "What did the old bugger use to make the coat of that fiendish beast shine like that?"

Erchirion grinned. "Graphite, I suppose. But you are trying to sidetrack. You wanted Frithuswith to have a picture of Théodred, not of his horse. So what you have to decide is, if this..." he pointed at the sketch, grinning wickedly, "display is fit to be presented to an old lady." He chuckled silently. "I dare say it would raise a scandal in Gondor, but every female, from tavern wench to high-born lady, would secretly love to have it."

Éomer shook his head. "I just don't get what it makes so..." He shrugged, not finding the fitting expression.

"Hot? Horny?" The grin on Erchirion's face nearly split his face.

"No. It's not that. There is something in it I can't comprehend. Something like a challenge. And yet ..." Éomer raked his hands through his hair. _What was it that drew in the beholder with such an overwhelming urge?_

Calimab had drawn the heir of the Mark without any reference to his social position, shown the young rider and not the prince, and yet there was the claim of leadership, a kind of easy authority that suffered no doubt. Théodred was clad in breeches and top boots, bare-chested, bearing no other weapon but the dagger in his belt. He stood firmly, his legs slightly apart in the fighter's stance that came so naturally to him, his right hand reaching up over his shoulder, holding the bridle of his mount. Some strands of his halfway undone braids were lifted by a sudden breeze, tangling with the horse's flying mane, while the thumb of his left hand was hooked into his belt in a nonchalant gesture.

His entire body radiated effortlessness, and yet the bulging muscles of his chest and the accentuated sinews of the arm that held the bridle indicated the strength that was necessary to control the stallion. But the most impressive aspect certainly was his face. Calimab had not attempted to smooth out the things that marred Théodred's features: the kink in his nose, where it had been broken when he had lost his helmet in his first skirmish ever. There was the small scar just above the left side of his upper lip that left a slight gap in his moustache, but what really caught the beholder's eye was the smile. A faint, lazy smile that scarcely curled the lips, but shone in Théodred's eyes, corresponding with the posture of his body: at ease, confident, happy and yet combined with the visible display of bodily strength there was something like a challenge... _But what made the picture so incredibly sensual?_

Éomer scanned the picture for a clue. And there... He blinked. From Théodred's left shoulder to his biceps ran three thin lines... scratches. And was that a bruise on the right side of his abdomen, just a hand over his waistband... a bite? Éomer swallowed, taking in the subtle hints that he had not been aware of at first sight: The way the dagger hung slightly askew, because the belt was buckled negligently, the laces of the flap unfastened … and that lazy smile combined with the laughing challenge of his eyes. _The dream of a Rohir... Boromir's dream?_ What Éomer saw was Théodred true-to life: a warrior, careless, happy and sated...

The energetic rap at the door announced Frithuswith, and entering at the same moment as usual, she strode up to the desk. "Food is ready, Éomer King. Shall I send your meal here or will you come to the hall?" Reaching out to retrieve the empty tankards, her gaze fell on the sketch and she stopped mid-motion, her mouth dropping open in utter surprise. Without a word Éomer rose, and taking her elbow, he urged her to sit down.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Éothain and Erchirion exchange glances and then silently leave the room.

"Frithuswith?" Gently touching the old woman's shoulder, he bent down to see her face. "Are you alright?"

Heaving a deep breath, she nodded and then looked up. "Where did you get this picture from?"

Pulling one of the other chairs close, Éomer sat down at her side. "Faramir sent it. Calimab remembered having portrayed Théodred in Lossarnach about twenty years ago." He hesitated before adding: "On Boromir's request, that is. The picture had been in Boromir's possession all the time."

Frithuswith nodded, and slowly reaching out, caressed the edges of the sketch. Sighing, she shook her head, and then said with a sad smile: "He looks so alive. So strong and happy." Her forefinger gingerly touched the shoulder of the sketched warrior. "My little one." Slowly her eyes filled with tears, but then, with a brusque movement, she passed the back of her hand over her eyes and swallowed. "I'm a bloody fool to be crying. He truly was happy, and he grabbed what life had to give with both hands." Resolutely she made to rise. "And it is good you made this come back to Edoras. It was right for Boromir to have it, but after his death..." She sat down again, unable to take her eyes off the picture.

Éomer cleared his throat. "You knew about them?"

"Théodred and Boromir?" Frithuswith smiled. "Yes, Éomer. I knew. From the very beginning." Her hand again went to the picture. "Boromir came to Edoras on his own for the first time when Théodred was 18 summers." Smiling she shook her head. "They fell for each other so hard that the old Steward in Mundburg should have felt the earth tremble beneath his feet."

"But I always thought..." Éomer couldn't help feeling embarrassed and his voice petered out.

"What?" Frithuswith looked at him, her eyes keen again now, challenge written across her features.

"Juthwara, " Éomer said. "I always thought Théodred loved his wife."

"Oh, but he did." Frithuswith's gaze was again caught by the picture. "He loved and cherished her, Éomer, and her death nearly undid him. But he did not desire her." She shrugged, her face in a sad smile. "He had to do his duty to his people."

"Did she know?"

"Yes, she did. Théodred would never have cheated a woman into marriage. She knew, and she understood. They felt deeply for each other, and she wanted to help him."

"Who else knew?"

"Éowyn certainly did. The night Juthwara died, Théodred got drunk and when Théoden King tried to console him, he accused himself of being responsible for her and the child's death, because his passion had not been with his wife when he begot the child. And he reproached Théoden with having let him live when Queen Elfhild died giving birth to him. He believed himself cursed, the murderer of his own mother, wife and child, thought his line was cursed, forsaken by the gods and he blamed his father to have passed the curse to him instead of letting it die together with his forsaken son." She sighed. "He was drunk and he was desperate, and Théoden King understood. Fortunately neither one of them noticed the girl under the desk." She grimaced and stood. "Éowyn did not talk to me about it at once, and it took me a lot of time and effort to worm things out of her, more so, as she had not really understood what she had heard."

Éomer's head swam. _Éowyn had known._ His sister had been twelve years old when Théodred's wife had died giving birth to a stillborn child, four years after Théoden King had taken them in at Meduseld after their mother's death. He himself had been at Aldburg then, training in Elfhelm's Éored. And Théodred had refused to marry again after Juthwara's death. It now made sense. As did the fact that Théodred had tried to convince Éowyn to marry his friend Erwig of Westfold three years after Fréaláf's death, promising to make their son his heir. He felt his stomach churn. _Éowyn had known... and she had never told him. _He shook his head, feeling an idiot for his possessiveness and jealousy. She had had Frithuswith, and certainly there were subjects no girl would like to discuss with her elder brother, especially if said brother was occupied with trying to prove how male and mature he was.

Closing the folder, he held it out to Frithuswith. The housekeeper looked at him and then at the folder, obviously not understanding. "It is yours, Frithuswith." He smiled at her disbelief. "You told me you would like to have a picture of Théodred, and Calimab remembered having drawn this one. So here you are."

Her hands trembled as she wordlessly took the folder and gathered it to her chest in a protective motion.

"Frithuswith." He bent down to her, his hand gently on her shoulder. She looked up, her eyes filled with tears. Giving her shoulder an encouraging squeeze, he gave her the information he thought important. "Prince Faramir asked me to keep their relation secret, as it would be frowned upon in Gondor. I will also talk to Calimab about it, though I suppose he realises anyway. He was really afraid you would censure him for having drawn this picture."

She frowned. "No, I would not, as this picture obviously was drawn with Théodred knowing it, and it was meant for a person he wanted to have it, but I did censure him for sketching me without my assent."

Éomer shook his head, not really understanding her mood. "But he has been drawing everyone and their mother, Frithuswith, and nobody ever complained. Quite the contrary, everybody seems to like his sketches. So how should he know that you disliked it?"

Frithuswith's mouth was an angry line. "His sketches are uncanny. And he said he wanted to catch the soul of the things he draws. So what if he uses his pictures to... " She stopped her angry tirade, noticing Éomer's astounded mien. Blushing she averted her eyes. "I know that he probably did not mean it literally, but … But I don't feel well, knowing he has got my picture. It's like he has got some part of me I can't control any more." She looked up at him, clutching the folder. "You should have seen that picture, Éomer. It was so..." She shook her head and then shrugged, unable to find the words.

Now it was Éomer's turn to frown. "Are you trying to tell me that he sketched anything... indecent?"

Despite her visible emotion she snorted, raising her eyebrows at him. "You don't think I would have problems expressing that, do you?" She stood and made for the door. "The prince and Éothain probably went to the hall, so perhaps you should go, too. They'll be waiting for you to have lunch served. I'll stow away the folder and join you."

Éomer nodded. "I will go." Grinning he added: "A king should know better than keeping warriors in his house hungry. And as for your portrait: Don't you worry, Frithuswith. I'll talk to Calimab after lunch and make him give it to you before he leaves for Gondor."

She smiled ruefully. "I should have asked him myself, but I did not want him to take me for one of those silly geese who fawn over him to get drawn by him. I am sure he would have misunderstood on purpose, that self-important little pipsqueak!"

"Has he ever offend you, Frithuswith?" Éomer was not sure what to make of her behaviour. Calimab certainly enjoyed getting attention, and especially that of women of any age, but as far as he knew the old carpenter had never shown any signs of self-importance. Quite the contrary...

Frithuswith shook her head. "No, he certainly hasn't, but I'll praise the gods once I am rid of him." With that she swept out of the room, leaving behind a rather thoughtful king who made for the hall.

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><p><strong>Snábrýd: <strong>(Rohirric/Old English) snow-lass/ snow-bride, my own invention of a Rohirric name for the Glacier Crowfoot (Ranunculus Glacials), a flower that is very special to me. It has white petals when starting to bloom that turn deep red when maturing.


	25. Chapter 25

So here comes the next chapter. A bit later than usual, but I hope you'll find it worth waiting for. It has not been betaed yet, as the last couple of days were extremely busy with making hay and the barley harvest, not to mention the fruit and vegetables that are ripe now, but I hope I have not violated the English language overmuch.:-/

Thank you for your lasting interest in the story and for all your reviews that really make me swell with pride and grin like an idiot. (I'm just afraid, one might become addicted to them... So you had better be merciful and spare me the pain of a withdrawal syndrome. ;-DD)

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><p><strong>Chapter 25<strong>

While Erchirion and Éothain went back to the barracks after the meal for further preparations, Winfrid strolled off to the stables and Éomer walked up to where Calimab was again spreading out his utensils to continue copying a certain tapestry.

"Master Calimab."

The old carpenter looked up, and recognising the king, rose and bowed respectfully.

"Prince Théodred's picture arrived today, and I handed it over to Frithuswith." Seeing the old man turn pale and then blush furiously, Éomer found it hard to suppress a grin. "You need not worry. She liked it exceedingly and found it very lifelike. And she is glad you portrayed him in a moment of happiness."

Still visibly embarrassed, the carpenter cleared his throat. "I am very pleased to hear that, my Lord King, as I would have hated to displease Mistress Frithuswith."

Éomer raised his eyebrows. "And yet displeased her you have, though not by this picture."

Calimab swallowed. "I know she is angry, but it eludes me why." He raised his hands in a helpless gesture. "She all but bodily threw me out of the kitchens and I never had a chance to ask her why." He looked utterly miserable. "I tried to ask the staff, but she seemingly has not talked to anyone about what caused her anger."

Moved by the old man's emotion, Éomer tried to explain. "Master Calimab, I think you have found out that there are elementary differences in the ways of Gondor and Rohan."

The carpenter nodded.

Éomer doubted that any Gondorean would truly understand what it meant to be an Eorling, but he was at least convinced of the old man's good will. "So while Frithuswith is not at all offended by the picture you drew of the prince, she highly is by your portraying her without her leave."

"But...," Calimab shook his head. "I don't understand why, Éomer King."

Éomer noticed the adjustment of address and understood the old carpenter's attempt to be polite, using the traditional Rohirric title. _An intelligent man, who was as well sensitive enough to understand a person's emotions and motives. _But at the moment Calimab obviously was at a loss as far as Frithuswith's behaviour was concerned.

"I assure you the sketch does her honour and I in no way attempted ..."

Éomer raised his hand. "I know that, Master Calimab, she never accused you to have drawn anything indecent. But being a people that largely lives without the use of writing, we believe written or carved signs to be symbols with magic power."

Calimab opened his mouth, but said nothing, staring at the king in disbelief.

_Wonderful, we are back to uncouth barbarians, aren't we? _Feeling his ire raise, Éomer wanted to shorten the conversation. "We believe that carving a thing or the symbol for it, we can get hold on it, can bend fate to our need and desire." He sharply looked at the Gondorean who in the meantime had closed his mouth again, but still was staring at him dumbfounded. "Frithuswith fears that by drawing her you might have attempted to captured a piece of her soul and thus tried to influence her." Calimab opened his mouth again, but before he could say anything, Éomer forestalled him. "I demand you give her the sketch before you leave for Minas Tirith."

The carpenter swallowed and nodded. "If you would be so kind as to wait a moment, Éomer King, I will get it and give it to you immediately. I would not like Mistress Frithuswith having misgivings any longer than absolutely necessary. I assure you I had no idea that she might be displeased when I sketched her." The old man's voice was unsteady, and he was visibly troubled, but nevertheless he added: "I have to admit though that it certainly is more than flattering for a artist to be believed able to capture a person's soul."

_Vain git!_ Éomer felt furious. _And yet... had not he himself felt that there was something special about the old carpenter's works?_ Suppressing his uncertainty, Éomer nodded curtly. "You'll find me in my study."

Only a little later the guard announced Calimab, who was carrying a case made of brownish paper. Reluctantly he put it on the king's desk, and opening it, Éomer was amazed at the number of sketches it held. Some were in silver point on vellum, others were drawn on paper in the same dark pen the Gondorean had used for Théodred's picture. They were of different sizes and spreading them out on his desk, Éomer counted eleven pictures, all of them showing Frithuswith. But it was the last one in the case that made Éomer blink. It showed Frithuswith's face, her keen eyes looking at the beholder with mocking challenge, one eyebrow slightly raised, her lips curled in a faint smile. It was not sketched in black, but in a warm, brownish red which added softness and vividness. _Béma, she truly was a beautiful woman, despite her age!_

"Éomer King."

Looking up, he found the old carpenter watching him with a determined expression on his face.

"I don't know if Mistress Frithuswith knows about all these sketches." Calimab blushed slightly, and pointing at the reddish one he explained: "She caught me at this one, and … well..." His blush deepened. "I thought it better to leave the kitchen before things got out of hand. I... I would very much like to regain her good opinion, so please, would you be so kind and hand these sketches over to her as a token of my esteem." He bowed in the grave Gondorean manner, his right hand covering his heart.

Éomer frowned. Despite all his vanity the man seemed sincere, but should he really support the old peacock in his attempt to make amends? But then: Frithuswith had a right to have her portraits back. He nodded, putting the sketches back into the case. "I will give these to Frithuswith, Master Calimab, but don't expect me to speak in your favour."

The carpenter inclined his head. "I thank you, Éomer King. But may I ask you something?"

"What?" Éomer did not even try to appear friendly.

Though visibly nervous, Calimab proceeded. "My Lord King, you said that Mistress Frithuswith might have misgivings about my intent for sketching her."

"Well?" Folding his arms in front of his chest, Éomer waited.

"As an artist and craftsman I truly believe that a good piece of artwork can mirror the very soul of what is pictured, but it cannot snatch away even the tiniest piece of it. And even if it could, I would never have attempted anything like that." The old man swallowed. "I would very much like Mistress Frithuswith to realise that."

"Then giving back all of the sketches you made might be a good start." Grudgingly Éomer had to admit that the quiet earnestness of the man's behaviour was impressing him.

"You say you will not speak up in my favour, but will you allow me to try and speak for myself?"

Éomer all but growled. "Master Calimab, I do not know what your plans are concerning Frithuswith, and certainly she is her own mistress. But be careful. She is a member of my household, and what is more, she not only fostered Prince Théodred but also me and my sister when our parents died. Should you cause her any grief, be sure you will have to answer to me."

"I do not aim to cause her grief, Éomer King, quite on the contrary." A faint smile crinkled Calimab's eyes. "But I'm afraid I'll need your help."

"My help?" Éomer was stunned at the Gondorean's brazenness.

Calimab simply nodded. "I beg your pardon, but yes, Éomer King, for I need a mirror, and I have none."

"A mirror? What for?"

Smiling, the greybeard pointed at the case. "If Mistress Frithuswith fears that I have tried to manipulate her by taking her picture, I will attempt to ease her misgivings by handing over a picture of myself to her. She then may decide if I can be trusted or not."

**ooo**

Opening the door to the queen's solar, where he knew he would find Frithuswith to hand her the case, Éomer could hardly suppress a groan. Amongst the women, busy sewing multi-coloured ribbons to the thick felt cushions that were to cover the benches, he immediately made out the quite prominent figure of Eorthwela. _How could he have forgotten to talk to her about Mildgydh's wish?_ There were only three days left until the Yule festivities, so he better had take his chance now. Stepping into the room, he greeted the women, causing a chorus of female voices to answer.

"Ah, Éomer King, have you come to check on the progress with your queen's room?" Lady Mildred's voice rose above the general noise and suddenly all eyes looked at him expectantly.

The room had changed visibly since the last time he had seen it. Not only were the benches covered with cushions, but the entire room looked different with the women sitting around, their needlework on their knees, and a bright fire burning in the hearth.

What hit him as the most impressive change were the curtains that now framed the windows. The women had chosen a deep yellow that seemed to be glowing as if it had absorbed the beams of the low winter sun, giving the room a warm and cosy atmosphere. The walls were still naked, as the women wanted the queen herself to decide what kind of hangings she preferred, but the floor was covered with rugs in all shades of brown, green and yellow, their fabric and their colour likewise providing warmth. The large table was strewn with different ribbons, threads and needles as well as some cups and a couple of smallish baskets holding soft buns.

Bowing with a smile to the women of the royal household, Éomer could not but praise their efforts. "You made it a nice and cosy room, ladies, and I am sure the queen will love it."

"But does she like needlework at all?" One of the younger women had spoken up and was now frowned at by all the other women present. Blushing, she tried to defend herself. "Lady Éowyn did not like it at all and was more than reluctant. And we don't know much about Princess Lothíriel's preferences."

"Well," a plump woman near the fireplace chimed in, "Why not ask the king himself? He has talked to her, he should know, shouldn't he?"

Frithuswith snorted. "Berchthild, the king had little more than a sennight in Dol Amroth. He certainly has talked to the princess but I cannot imagine him to have had his focus on the princess' interest in needlework."

According to the women's differing temperament various sounds of mirth arose, from shy giggles to guffawing laughter. Poor Berchthild blushed in embarrassment, but once the mirth had died down, Eorthwela's calm voice could be heard. "I don't suppose Éomer King might have initiated a talk about needlework, but perhaps the princess had. And I do not think that she is interested in weaponry like Lady Éowyn. I never heard about Stoningland having shield-maidens."

"No, they don't. But the princess is an expert archer." Éomer found it hard not to laugh out loud at the horror-stricken faces in front of him.

"But why did you never say so?" Frithuswith's voice clearly showed her disappointment. "It would have saved us a lot of work had we known that she does not like needlework."

Smiling Éomer shook his head. "She does, Frithuswith. She loves doing embroidery and she also is very good at sewing." _That wonderful shirt... her smell..._ _Bema how could the simple thought of it unhinge him thus? _He cleared his throat in an attempt to brace himself. "I don't know about weaving, but she is also interested in dying fabrics." After the short moment it took them to digest the news, all women present seemed to start talking at once and Éomer used the general commotion to hand Frithuswith the case. "Take that to your room," he whispered into her ear.

The old housekeeper looked puzzled. "You really...?"

Grinning, Éomer nodded. "He delivered all the sketches he has taken of you."

"All..." Frithuswith stood speechless and then grabbing the case, she hurried out of the room.

Having carried out that task, Éomer turned to the one he deemed much more difficult. With a polite smile he addressed Éothain's wife, asking her to accompany him to the nursery where Gytha's carpet had been put, as far as he knew..

Entering the chamber, he held the heavy wooden door open for Eorthwela to follow, while by warrior's habit, he scanned the room. The changes in the solar had already been surprising, but those in this room simply took his breath away. The nursery was furnished now, holding two large chests on both sides of the window, a shelf of light coloured wood and a narrow bed for the appointed nursemaid to use, besides the richly carved royal cradle that he had already seen at his first visit to the room. But what really took his breath away were the tapestries on the wall opposite to the fireplace, the only wall of the room that was not interrupted by any door or window.

The entire length of the wall was decorated with hangings, every piece sporting horses of different positions, age and coats, the single pieces being hung that close to one another that it seemed as if a herd of mares and foals was wandering at ease along the wall of the nursery, led by a cautiously winding old lead-mare, while the stallion was displayed in the last piece of tapestry, securing the rear guard as he would on the plains.

Stunned he turned to Eorthwela. "Béma's almighty horse, when did you make that?"

The woman laughed. "We did not make it, Éomer King. You don't seem to know how much time such work needs."

"But where did you get it from? I've never seen it before, and it is marvellous. Certainly such a treasure has not been hidden in Meduseld and not been on display." Stepping closer, he let his hands slide over the wool, taking in the details of the motive.

Eorthwela shrugged, her face serious now. "Frithuswith had this made when Prince Théodred got married and she prepared the nursery for the offspring she hoped him to father. She kept the tapestries in her personal chest once it became clear that the prince would not marry again."

Éomer found it difficult to get over his surprise. "She never talked about it."

Shaking her head, Eorthwela stepped up beside him. "I believe there are quite a lot of things Frithuswith has never talked about."

Éomer swallowed. How many expectations, how much hope had the old housekeeper put into this? How deep must her grief have been when she had to realise that there never would be the children she had been craving for? She, who had always been there for the needs of others. Swivelling round, he cleared his throat. "Let's hope that there soon will be children to fill this room with life."

Eorthwela smiled again. "I don't doubt that there will. But you certainly did not bring me here to talk about Frithuswith's tapestry."

"No, I did not even know that they existed. Some time ago I talked to Mildgydh about her wish to work the large loom." With some unease he noticed a deep furrow appear between Eorthwela's brows. But then, that was to be expected, he told himself. "I promised her to talk to you."

"What about?" Despite her calling him King now, her behaviour had not change from when they first had met on the wind-swept plains.

Pointing at the thick, colourful weave that covered the floor under the cradle, he explained. "I can well understand her wish and I appreciate her eagerness, Eorthwela. Why, this has been woven by my daughter Gytha. Please, have a look at it."

Still frowning, Éothain's wife obliged, kneeling on the floor to examine Gytha's work. After a while she looked up. "So what do you expect me to say, Éomer Cyning? The woof is regular, the fringe tucked in orderly, but I don't understand what this should have to do with my daughter's wish to weave."

Éomer shrugged. "I don't know anything about weaving, Eorthwela, and I'm not able to judge the quality of the work. But what I can comprehend, looking at this blanket or carpet or whatever you want to call it is the joy Gytha felt, weaving it."

The woman's frown deepened. "Your daughter is two years older than Mildgydh."

He could not deny that. "True, but this is not the first cloth she wove on the large loom."

Again she ran her hands over the fabric, but did not say anything.

"Eorthwela, Mildgydh is strong and tall for her age. She's eager to weave on the larger loom. And her reasoning makes sense. Give her a chance."

She grimaced. "If you had a young son who wanted to use a real, sharp sword at the age of ten, would you let him?"

"Certainly not unsupervised, but I would at least let him have a try."

Eorthwela snorted. "Men! What did I expect you to answer?." But then a smile stole into her features. "What did that big oaf of a husband of mine tell you to make you feel obliged to change my mind?"

He could not but smile, too. "Nothing. As a matter of fact Éothain was not happy with me interfering, but Mildgydh promised me three ells of ribbon if I managed to sway you before Yule."

Chuckling, Eorthwela shook her head. "So between the two of you, the king and his captain, you taught my daughter that men can be twisted around a girl's little finger and bribed if that doesn't work. But I will think about it." Turning, to go back to the solar, she stopped once more, and grinning, winked at him. "I would not deprive my king of the possession of three ells of ribbon, would I?"

**ooo**

He made for his study, feeling he needed some time alone. He had to write an answering letter to Éowyn and Faramir, but his head swam with the news he had learned today. And what was even more important: He wanted to write to Lothíriel, wanted to assure her that he understood her feelings. He had tried to answer her letter several times during the past days, but each time he had read it again, he had got absorbed in daydreams that had left him hard and aching, impeding any attempt of a sober answer. Perhaps the Gondorean messenger had better stay in Edoras over Yule, as he would not make it back to Minas Tirith before the solstice festivities there anyway.

He was about to open the door, when he saw Frithuswith coming back from her room. Stopping close to him, she looked up enquiringly, and even in the dimness of the corridor he discerned how pale she was. Without a word he put an arm around her shoulder and led her into his study and over to one of the upholstered chairs near the fireplace. The fact that she let him do so without any at least verbal resistance showed clearly how shattered she felt, which worried him deeply. Pulling another chair close, he sat down beside her. For a while they sat in silence, until Frithuswith heaved a ragged breath, lifting her eyes from the peat fire she had been staring at.

"How could he have taken so many sketches without me realising it?" She shook her head. "He must have drawn one daily until I finally caught him at it. And he has been as busy as a beaver with all the requests for portraits. Every single scullery maid has got one and they worship him because of that. I never asked him for one, because... " A faint blush crept into her cheeks and she averted her eyes. "And he did not only draw in the kitchens. He spent hours in the hall every day, copying the carvings. And he sketched in the stables, too. Not to mention the whittling he does in his quarters."

"Whittling?"

She nodded. "He bought a pear-wood log from Alhstan the carver two weeks ago and since then has been working on it. Wraps it up that carefully that none of the maids that clean the guest-houses has dared to have a look at it."

Éomer smiled. As always, she was informed about everything going on in Edoras in detail. And obviously she had considered details of Calimab's occupations worth having. She certainly knew about the old carpenter's devotion. Could it really be that the dragon of Meduseld was not immune to it? Looking at her out of the corner of his eye, Éomer made an attempt to find out.

"Frithuswith, Calimab admires you. Your opinion of him is important for him."

She angrily shook her head. "I want him to leave me alone. There are enough things for him to draw and enough silly wenches who would kiss his hands or whatever part he wants to be kissed just for being sketched by him. He is an excellent artist, I'll give you that, but I'm happy he's going to leave soon."

Thoughtfully Éomer scanned her face. She was again gazing into the fire, her lips clamped shut in an angry line, as if she had already said too much, but he could sense her uneasiness under the stern surface. "Frithuswith, why does he unsettle you so much?"

"What?" Her head flew up, but her gaze was unsteady, giving away her embarrassment.

"He has given back all portraits of you, so sure you can't claim that he might try to influence you in an uncanny way any more. He..."

She snorted. "How do you know he has? There might be more and..."

"Frithuswith, you yourself wondered where he found the time for all these pictures. How could there be even more? And I talked to him. I believe him." He shrugged. "I have problems to cope with his vanity – the way he dresses for example- and his pride as far as his art is concerned, though I think he is exceptionally good on his job. But I believe him to be a decent man, or otherwise I would not have allowed him to stay at Edoras, no matter what Erchirion said in favour of him.

Reaching for the basket beside the hearth, he put some more peat on the fire. "Nobody knew about those sketches, Frithuswith. Nobody expected him to have them. I demanded the one you caught him drawing, and he brought them all. It seems to be important for him that you do not think ill of him."

Her eyes sparkling angrily, she lifted her chin in defiance. "Tell me, Éomer Cyning, why are you taking that conceited Gondorean's side?"

Éomer groaned in frustration. "I'm not taking his side, Frithuswith. Quite on the contrary. I will never allow him to hurt you in any way, but I would like to understand your motives."

"And what entitles you to do so?" Her face was stern, and he felt that his patience was growing thin."

"I care for you, Frithuswith. I cannot bear to see you unhappy. And, "he added with a wry smile, "Éowyn would have my hide if she ever learned that you suffered any hurt and I did not at least try to prevent it."

Frithuswith shook he head. "Boy, if a pack of orcs or a horde of hill-men attacked Meduseld I would certainly need and expect you to defend and protect me. But as far as other things go... believe me: I'm old enough to cope for myself." Seeing his frown, she put a hand on his wrist. "Éomer, I'm thankful you got my pictures from Calimab, but there is nothing else you can do."

Grimacing he shook his head. _Why did all the women he cared for had to be so headstrong? _"I certainly know you are old enough to manage your own business, perhaps better than me myself, Frithuswith. But I want you to be happy." Putting his hand on hers, he looked at her seriously. "Frithuswith, after all you went through, after all you did for Éowyn and me... and for Rohan, you deserve to be happy."

Smiling she shook her head. "And to make me happy you try to pair me off with that grey-bearded peacock from Dol Amroth."

"No, not really, as I'm not sure if you want him." Squeezing her hand, he winked at her. "But if I knew you wanted him..."

"You would personally force him to marry me and stay in Rohan." She gave a low chuckle. "I'm not sure if you would need much forcing. He does not see reality at the moment because he idolises everything about Rohan, and I am part of that." Shaking her head, she looked back into the fire. "I don't know what I want, Éomer. But I know what I don't want: A man at my side who every wench on the premises bats her eyes at. " She swallowed, obviously trying to keep her lips from trembling. "I'm no fool, Éomer. I'm old, and my body does not cause a man to desire me any more. Perhaps he does not realise that at the moment, but he would soon get tired of me. There cannot be ..." Her voice having become shaky, she stopped and heaved a deep breath. "You yourself say that he's vain. How would he like to share his bed with … a crone like me?"

"Frithuswith, he is at least as old as you and..."

"No," she interrupted him, "He had more than one wench share his bed up at Beaccotlif, and who is he to resist temptation, if some strapping lass offers to lie with him? No, Éomer, I will not debase myself to a competition I stand no chance at. I had my life and I don't want anybody's pity. I'm not dead already and may still have some fun now and then with a nice bloke, given the opportunity, but I cannot bind a man to myself in earnest." Resolutely she stood, throwing her long silver-grey braid back over her shoulder. "The sooner he leaves, the less grief we'll cause each other."

He too rose, and halfway to the door she turned, a sad smile on her face. "Look, Éomer, there are things that can't become real, how sweet they may be as a dream. And believe me, once he's back in Gondor, he'll soon realise that."

* * *

><p><strong>Annotations:<strong>

I had **red chalk** on my mind when I thought of Calimab's last sketch of Frithuswith. I know it was not used in the Middle-Ages, but then Tolkien has buttons and potatoes in Middle-Earth, so I felt free to introduce it.


	26. Chapter 26

So here comes the next chapter. A bit earlier to compensate you for having to wait some days longer than usual for the last one. ;-) Thanks to all of you for reading, lurking, subscribing, "favouriting" (The English language should really have this word! :-D ), and especially for reviewing.

An many thanks to **sep12, **who helped me with the language, although she had a lot of work to do.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 26<strong>

Éomer had just finished the letter to Éowyn and Faramir and was sealing it when he heard the noise of running feet from the corridor. Only a few seconds later the door of his study was yanked open after little more than a perfunctory knock and Winfrid rushed into the room, his face in a wide grin. "They are coming, Sire. The watch say that they have just crossed the ford."

Smiling, Éomer rose. The day before he had sent six guards to Aldburg to escort Gytha to Edoras for the Yule festivities with flying colours. That would be his girl's day. She was coming to Edoras for the first time in her life, and he had made sure that there would be no doubt about her position as the king's first-born daughter. As a child of the Blessing she would be regarded as one favoured by the gods anyway, but he intended to make clear to everyone that she held his esteem and love.

Opening the door to the adjoining bedroom, he went over to the large four-poster where his regal clothes were already laid out for him. Kicking off the convenient indoor footwear, he noticed Winfrid standing in the door.

"Do you need any assistance, Sire?"

Éomer's eyebrows shot up. "Winfrid, I'll welcome Gytha officially and therefore in full regalia, but I won't wear armour. And up to now I have never noticed to need assistance clothing myself."

The boy shrugged. "No, Sire, but I wasn't sure about the armour."

Already busy getting out of his tunic and shirt, Éomer grimaced. "I'm going to meet my daughter, not an enemy. Or do you think her to be so dangerous that I had better don mail?"

Picking up the discarded clothes and putting them on top of the chest at the foot of the bed, Winfrid shrugged. "She certainly can be fierce, Sire."

"So you experienced her fierceness?" Grinning Éomer pulled the woollen shirt in green and red hues over his head, and reached for the richly embroidered tunic.

The boy nodded enthusiastically. "When we were at Laguhám, she promised the headman's daughter a thrashing for mocking me when I braided the girls' hair after swimming."

Éomer's hands fumbling with the waistband of his breeches stopped in mid-motion. _A girl, more so,_ _a younger girl, standing up for a lad's protection.._. "That must certainly have been embarrassing for you."

To his surprise Winfrid just shrugged again. "No, funny enough it wasn't. I suppose she is so much used to being the eldest and therefore responsible for her smaller siblings... It just comes to her naturally. And she told me that until last spring she had been the only girl amongst a bunch of brothers. So she's used to commanding. Like my elder sisters." Another shrug, now accompanied with a grin. "I'm used to being the youngest. I suppose that helps to cope with being the smallest."

Hopping on one leg, Éomer got out of his breeches and threw them to Winfrid, who placed them with the other clothes. "You got along with her quite well at Aldburg, didn't you?"

"She's fun to be with, Éomer Cyning. She's clever and she isn't afraid of anything. I never had a younger sister, but if I had had one, I would have liked her to be like Gytha."

Tying his belt, Éomer eyed his squire, who was grinning happily, as if remembering some special prank. _Perhaps he should have a word with Ceadda when accompanying his Éored to Aldburg after Yule. _Reaching for the polished boots, Éomer noticed that the boy was still in the clothes he had worn in the stables, obviously having forgotten that he was to be at his king's side at the welcoming.

"Well, Winfrid, you had better hurry up and change. They'll be at the stairs in less than half an hour, and I expect you in your finest."

Still grinning, the boy saluted and shot out of the room, nearly running into Frithuswith who was just about to enter, the king's cloak over her arm. Giving Éomer an appraising look, she put the cloak on the bed. "You're really making a show of it. I just hope the girl has the nerves not to shy."

"I'm not that bad, Frithuswith. No sword, no crown. And what is wrong with setting a good example and receiving a young lady properly?"

"Properly?" The housekeeper raised an eyebrow. "In that case, you had better comb your hair, boy."

**ooo**

Half an hour later he stood on the terrace of Meduseld, flanked by the King's Guard under Éothain's command and accompanied by Winfrid and Erchirion and watched Gytha dismount at the bottom of the stairs. Despite having been in the saddle for hours, the girl moved with easy grace, throwing back the hood of her thick fur-lined cloak before she started to ascend. Her red-golden head looked tousled, but with her back straight and her head held high she nevertheless managed to look regal as she stepped up the perron, the cloak of dark green wool and russet squirrel fur that pooled around her adding to the impression. Éomer smiled. Summer pelts, to be sure, but the best to be had in the Mark. He had ordered this cloak to be tailored for her the moment he had made up his mind to have her at Meduseld for the solstice festivities, but up to now he had not seen the finished garment.

Reaching the terrace, she dropped into a perfect curtsey before him, but when she lifted her eyes to him, Éomer could see the laughter in them. _No, his girl certainly was far from shying! _She obviously was taking the entire procedure as a great play. Pulling her close, he kissed her brow, before taking her by the elbow and turning her around to face the inhabitants of Edoras who had assembled in the yard for a look at the king's daughter. Smiling she raised her hand and then bowed to the people, which earned her shouts of approval.

Putting her hand on his arm, Éomer led her towards the doors of the hall, which the door-wardens hurried to throw open. It was then that Gytha noticed Erchirion, whose bow she reciprocated with a wide smile. And then, just as the heavy doors were shut behind them, her eyes fell on Winfrid who stood at Frithuswith's side and she stopped dead in her tracks and let go of her father's arm, her face in a wide grin.

"Béma's horse, Winfrid, you have grown."

From one second to the other the well-behaved young lady had disappeared, giving room to the tomboy from the Wold. Éomer saw Erchirion turn aside to hide his grin, and he himself found it difficult to suppress the treacherous twitching of his lips. Winfrid himself stayed perfectly unruffled, answering her with a polite bow.

"So have you, Gytha Éomer's daughter."

"I know." She grimaced. "They'll soon call me the beanstalk of the Wold."

Now a smile flitted over the boy's features, and with a slight shaking of his head he said. "I would not think of a beanstalk, thinking of you Gytha, but rather of the slender ash that lends her power to the spear."

Gytha blushed, and Éomer could not but notice with delight how maidenly and yet alive she seemed with that blush. He took her hand to present her to Frithuswith, who stood waiting with the welcome-cup, but his paternal joy was cut short by a remark from one of the young men of the household, standing at the sides of their passage to the dais.

"Did you hear that? Our Westfold runt will certainly become a minstrel."

_Eáldread's nephew Swithwulf, that conceited dolt. _Éomer found it hard not to react immediately but he wanted to spare his daughter the embarrassment of her welcome to Meduseld being interrupted.

Winfrid did not react, pretending he had not heard, though the reddish spots high on his cheekbones told a different tale. Making a mental note to take Swithwulf to task later, Éomer proceeded, but Gytha clearly had other ideas about what was necessary. Jerking her hand free, she went for the lout with an angry glare. "Shut up and leave him alone, will you? He meant to be friendly and that is more than can ever be said about you." Throwing her head back haughtily, she put her hand back on Éomer's arm without giving the youth another look.

Éomer found it difficult not to laugh, especially when Erchirion muttered in mock surprise: "Blimey, I'll never guess who that girl inherited her temper from."

Fortunately Frithuswith stepped forward now, presenting the welcome-cup to the king's daughter. Thanking her, Gytha raised the cup to her lips and drained it, handing the empty vessel back to the housekeeper with a wide smile. "Ceadda asked me to convey his thanks, Frithuswith, for kicking his..." She stopped, obviously realising just in time what she was about to say.

Frithuswith grinned. "Whatever needed to be kicked, Lady Gytha."

Blushing furiously upon finding herself addressed with that title, Gytha shot Éomer an uncertain side-glance, but Frithuswith forestalled any remarks on his side. "You certainly will want to rest a bit before dinner is served. Come, I'll lead you to your room."

Another side-glance to Éomer, but when he nodded and smiled assuringly, Gytha followed the housekeeper with surprisingly graceful steps. His glance following her, Éomer shook his head, not sure what to make of her contradictory behaviour. That certainly would provide quite an amount of entertainment at the dining table, when she was to be introduced to the nobles the next evening. Perhaps he could just pile her plate high enough to keep her from talking too much to forego the worst of the embarrassment. He grinned at his own stupid idea. She was a child, and a temperamental one to be sure, but she was visibly trying to behave ladylike, and he would not attempt to quench her fire, even if she might give some noble gits a piece of her mind. Erchirion seemed to think likewise, grinning unabashedly, and only Éothain, standing with an expressionless mien at the head of the King's Guard beside the door of the hall managed to keep his countenance. Perhaps it was well that today's dinner would be no official affair and there was still an entire day for the women of the household to go through every step of tomorrow's ritual and explain to her, how she was expected to behave. Tomorrow, everybody's eyes would be on her, the king's daughter, passing the torch, but today she would just be his Gytha.

**ooo**

It was about an hour before sunset when Éomer approached his daughter's room the next day. Other than at meals he had seen little of her throughout the day, being busy with last preparations for the first Éored to leave the morning after solstice. It certainly was a good omen for the Riders to set out with the waxing sun. He had spent some hours in Erchirion's company, and he could not help fretting that it was his friend and brother to ride to Gondor and not him. He knew he had to accept the council's verdict, even admitted that it made sense... But to be left behind like that... He shook himself to clear his head. This was his daughter's day, and he had no right to spoil it with his own moodiness. Shifting the small pouch he was carrying into his other hand, he knocked at the door. He could not help a smile: His old room at the end of the corridor... and now it was his daughter's.

A maid opened, hairbrush in hand, and entering he found Gytha sitting by the fireside, wrapped in some kind of short cape, while the maid had obviously been brushing out her hair. A skirt of green-golden silk pooled around her legs as she stood to greet him, her face in a nervous frown.

"Is it already that late? I thought I still had some time left, but..."

"Don't you worry, Gytha Dohtor, you have nearly an entire hour till you are expected in the hall. I just came to see you and to find out if everything was alright." Putting the pouch on the small table near the window, he took the hairbrush from the maid's hand, dismissed her and motioned to Gytha to sit down again. "I see you are already dressed, so let me brush your hair and we can talk a bit before the Líhtung."

The girl looked at him with a frown. "You can brush a girl's hair?"

Éomer grinned. "I sometimes brush my own, despite what Frithuswith assumes, and I certainly can curry a horse. I can't see where there is a great difference."

Chuckling, Gytha spread out her skirt and sat down carefully, tossing her hair back over her shoulders with both hands. Following the tradition she would wear it open tonight as a sign of her unmarried status. It had obviously been freshly washed, showing no traces of having been braided, and the single strands gleamed like living red gold in the light of the fire. He slowly began to brush, starting with the tips that hung curling down her back and then working up the single strands with even strokes. Her back was unnaturally straight, and looking over her shoulder he saw her fingers twitch.

"Are you nervous, Dohtor?" He was relieved he had had the idea of taking some time to talk to her before the beginning of the solstice ritual.

Gytha shook her head. "No, Lady Mildred explained everything to me, and then, I have seen it a thousand times."

"An thousand times?" He chuckled at her exaggeration. "I didn't know I had a daughter that old. Did you get along with Lady Mildred?"

The girl shrugged. "I suppose I would have preferred Frithuswith, but she had so little time with all the preparations." Twisting around in the chair, she peeked at him enquiringly. "Éomer Faeder, did you really feel insulted when I barked at that idiot who made that stupid remark about Winfrid?"

"Insulted? Who said I was?" Éomer found it rather difficult to brush her hair while she kept moving.

"Lady Mildred. She said that it was your prerogative to call anybody to order in your own hall, and behaving as I did I slighted you. And I embarrassed Winfrid, because I'm younger than him and a girl." Again a deep furrow appeared between her brows. "I did not want to insult you, nor to embarrass Winfrid, but that dolt simply got my goat."

Éomer found it difficult not to laugh. "Lady Mildred is said dolt's aunt, and she's right that you should not have yelled at him in my presence, but she's wrong to assume that I feel insulted or that Winfrid feels embarrassed. I think we both know that you did not mean to hurt anybody but Swithwulf."

Gytha breathed a sigh of relief. "That's what Frithuswith told me, too. But she also said that there had been no need to dress him down, as you already had made clear to everybody that he was going to pay for his insolence. She said you had been glaring at him like a thundercloud." Her face lit up in a wide smile. "It's a pity I did not see it. They all talk so much about your glare, but I've never seen it. Did you really take him to task?"

"I certainly did. Once the Éoreds have left for Stoningland, he'll have to rake the paddocks."

"All of them?" If there had ever been glee in Middle-Earth it was written across Gytha's face at this moment. Éomer nodded, and the corners of her lips nearly reached her earlobes. "Man, he'll be shovelling shit for ages!" She gazed at him in open admiration, and Éomer felt like his daughter's crony in an especially nasty prank. But their talk had visibly eased the girl's nervousness and for a while she sat in relaxed silence.

Having brushed out the last strand, Éomer went to the table and took up the pouch. When he swivelled round, he found Gytha had shed the cape, and his eyes widened with admiration. The green-golden silk hugged her chest, being tied close with a number of golden laces as were the upper sleeves down to her elbows, from where they fell in wide folds well past her hips. The neckline would have been daringly low, had she not worn a higher-cut shift-dress of white lawn underneath, nested into uncountable small folds that was also visible under her wide-cut sleeves and at the slightly shorter front of the skirt. The lower part of the kirtle seemed to have been done in a double layer of silk, adding fullness to Gytha's lean form. She blushed, seeing his admiring grin, and pointed to the clothes stand. "There is a woollen overcoat to go with it, which I can cast off should it get too warm in the hall, well, and then there is that wonderful cloak you sent."

He smiled. "I hoped you would like it, when I selected the materials. You look splendid in it Gytha."

Her blush deepened, as her hands stroked the russet fur. "Ceadda said I looked like a squirrel myself in it. But I like it very much. I never had anything that beautiful."

Stepping up besides her, he noticed the clasp fixed to the cloak: a large polished copper disc, five small horses running along its edge etched into it. Slowly he reached out to touch it. "I did not know you had this. But it goes splendidly with the colours of the cloak."

"Mother gave it to me when I left for Aldburg. She said it was the first present you ever gave to me." She turned and smiled at him. "The day you came and named me."

He swallowed and could but nod. It had been the only precious thing he had had on him apart from his sword when he had rushed towards the Wold, having heard of the girl's birth. "It is a heirloom that goes back to the days of Éofor, Gytha. My mother gave it to me when my father died."

"It is very nice," she said, "But the needle bends with the thick fabric of the cloak and it easily opens. I have sewn the hind part to the fabric, so I won't lose it, should it open."

He smiled. "It had already been like that when I wore it. I often thought to replace the needle, but I never made it. But I still have another gift for you, Dohtor. One that comes from the treasuries of Meduseld." Opening the pouch, he handed her the thin gold circlet it held. "A king's daughter should not go unadorned at the Líhtung."

Carefully she shoved the circlet into her hair in front of the polished silver plate that served as a mirror and then turned to Éomer for inspection. When he nodded approvingly, she went to the chest, digging a small wooden box out of it. "I also got some jewellery from Princess Lothíriel." Putting the necklace on her palm, she held it out to Éomer.

The peridot had the size and shape of a small plum of lucent brownish green and was cased in a delicate half moon-shaped band of gold, which made it look as if it was carried in a stylised boat. He motioned to her to turn round and fastened it around her neck. Lothíriel had been right, it fitted perfectly with the colour of the silk.

Smiling he watched his daughter checking herself in the mirror, until finally she turned around with a sigh. "She wrote me a letter, saying that you told her about me the very first day you talked to her."

He nodded, but Gytha's attention was already back to her reflection in the mirror, fussing with the neckline.

"Is she beautiful, Éomer Faeder?"

He scratched his jawline. _What to say to a girl who was so obviously unsure about her own looks? _He shrugged. "I think so, Gytha."

The girl frowned. "You think so? You saw her, you talked to her, you are to marry her, and you don't know if she is beautiful?"

Her really did not know. With a feeling close to panic her realised that he was not able to describe her features. Her eyes, those incredible slate-coloured orbs, her lips...yes... but he could not exactly remember their shape... only their touch and their taste was vivid in his memory. _But you did not tell that to a_ _girl of twelve._ "I don't know if others would call her beautiful, Gytha. To me she is."

Gytha pondered that answer, but she did not seem to be satisfied with it. "But what does she look like? Winfrid said she has black hair."

Éomer nodded. "She has. Black as a raven's wing."..._and smelling of cloves and sandalwood..._

"And her eyes?" She would not give in so easily.

"Grey." As well this answer did not seem to satisfy her.

"Like Ealder Modor's?"

He shook his head. "No, darker. Like slate." At least that seemed acceptable. But it no way was the end of her enquiry.

"How tall is she?"

He lifted his hand to somewhere below his nose. _She had to stand on tiptoes to kiss him without pulling his head down. _The girl seemed to ponder the information she had got so far, the characteristic frown on her face, and then launched her next question: "But what makes you love her?

Éomer sighed. "A lot of things Gytha Dohtor. Her openness, her mirth, her trustworthiness, her intelligence, her friendliness, her determination, her skill, her courage, her strength... and that she loves me. She makes me happy, Gytha."

The girl shook her head. "But I thought that a woman had to be beautiful for a man to want her... I mean for a man to want to marry her. Your description sounds as if you were talking about an oath-brother."

Éomer laughed. "Gytha, there certainly are things I feel for her I would not talk about to you..."

"Like passion?" Her head tilted, she eyed him like a curious bird.

Éomer heaved a deep breath. "Yes, Gytha. But what really impressed me most was her recklessness that day we went sailing."

"Sailing?" Her eyes were big now. "You went sailing on one of those ships Winfrid told me about?"

Éomer shook his head. "Winfrid probably told you about the warships of Dol Amroth. No, Gytha, we went sailing on a much smaller boat..." And suddenly he found himself telling his daughter about the trip to Tol Cobas, the birds and the lobsters, the race towards Edhellond against Mardil, Lothíriel's manoeuvre outboards the boat, the rope that had cut her wrist, his fit of seasickness, the foundering of Mardil's boat... Gytha followed his narration with held breath, demanding further details here and there, and both looked up in surprise when there was a knock at the door and Winfrid entered, carrying Éomer's cloak and informing them that the sun was about to set..

Hurriedly Gytha slipped into the overcoat and slung the cloak around her shoulders. Éomer helped her fasten the clasp, and then she was ready. Smiling down at her, he took her small hand in his, and together they went to perform the solstice ritual.

He felt her hand grabbing his own more tightly as they entered the hall. All lights as well as the fire in the central fireplace had been extinguished and only through the louvre and the slit-windows high in the wall the last faint sunrays fell into the dim hall, like a pale memory of light, rather deepening the darkness than lifting it. He sensed the people that thronged the hall, standing like living shadows on both sides of it, leaving a broad empty space in the middle that ran across all the length of the hall from the dais to the mighty wooden door, with the fireplace in the middle. Nobody talked or moved, and he felt as if he could hear their breathing like a shallow breeze, a sigh of life that wafted through the darkness. He felt a shudder creep up his back, leaving goosebumps in its trail. So many times he had participated in the ritual of solstice now, many times in the leading position as the head of the household back in Aldburg and last winter also in Meduseld, and still he could not help the feeling of awe.

When they stepped onto the dais, the door of the hall was thrown open and a single horn sounded. Éomer's eyes had adjusted to the darkness by now, and the additional light through the opened door enabled him to see the outlines of the fireplace and the tall figure of the woman beside it. He knew it to be Frithuswith who held the embers of the old hearth-fire in a covered basket laid out with fresh clay, but there in the breathing twilight of the ancient hall she seemed like one of the mothers of old, come back from the shadows to give fire and life to her children.

He felt Gytha's palm turning moist with sweat, but outwardly she showed no signs of nervousness as he led her towards the fireplace, where both of them stopped and bowed low before Frithuswith in her function as the bearer and protector of the hearth-fire, the mirrored image of the sun. _The old woman to preserve the symbol of life, the head of the household to rekindle, and the young untouched girl to carry it on and out into the world. _All three of them stood, their faces turned to the open door, and Éomer swallowed to ease the lump in his throat as the last traces of sunlight faded.

Letting go of Gytha's hand, he stepped up to face Frithuswith, who removed the covering from the basket and blew on the embers, causing them to glow reddish in the encircling dark. Holding the basket out to him, the old woman spoke the words delivered from times before Eorl.

"Sun, mother and daughter. Through death you come to life. From the flesh of the dying mother, life warm and new shall be born. Sun, Mother and Daughter, through death you come to life. From ashes and glowering shadow, kindled shall be a new flame."

Bowing low, he received the embers and turned towards the dark hearth. It had been prepared with kindling, chippings of pinewood that gave forth a strong aromatic smell and the log on the low iron prongs was soaked with resin and beeswax to catch the fire safely. Kneeling beside the hearth, he placed the basket under the log and chip by chip, put the kindling on it, blowing into the embers till the edges of the chips started to glow, and then the kindling caught fire, the flame leaping up with sudden force, licking the underside of the large log, and in the blink of an eye the fire caught, shrouding the entire log in a sudden blaze. A sound like a sigh went through the hall and Éomer stood, his eyes seeking Gytha's. Despite the flickering of the flames he could see she was pale, her deep-blue eyes dark, her large mouth a thin line, as she tried to quench her nervousness. But she stood proud, her head held high, her shoulders straight and he could not help the wave of joy and pride that washed over him at the sight of his daughter. Gytha Éomund's Dohtor, Child of the Blessing, golden-red as the fire itself.

Taking the torch that had been lying near the upper end of the fireplace, he held it to the blazing log and then raised it above his head.

"Sun, mother and daughter, through death you come to life. From fire newly kindled, a blaze shall guide your way."

He saw Gytha swallow hard, and he wished he could hug her or at least smile at her encouragingly, but when she reached out to receive the brand, her hand did not tremble and her gaze was steady. Heaving a deep breath, she took the torch from her father's hand, bowed low, and then held it high above her head for all to see. That was the sign for the drums to set in, and with the low beats rolling through the hall, Gytha turned to carry the sacred fire out to the people waiting.

Leaving a distance of some yards to emphasise her importance, Éomer and Frithuswith followed, and behind them the nobles and the members of the household filed behind to step out onto the terrace above Edoras.

The air was crispy with the promise of frost and the entire town lay dark and silent. Both sides of the long flight of steps were lined with people, forming a guard of honour from the terrace of the king's hall to the main square of the town, where an impressive bonfire had been set up. Stepping up to the very edge of the landing, Gytha raised the torch. With a last _dum_ the drums stopped, and then there was nothing save Gytha's voice, clear and young as a new day, and yet solemn and steady speaking the sacred words:

"Sun, mother and daughter, through death you came to life. Hope newly rekindled, flame born anew. I carry you, sacred fire, I shall cradle you, newly-born sun."

To the solemn beats of the drums, Gytha descended the stairs, holding the torch level with her head, her gaze seemingly fixed on a point in the distance. As she passed, the bystanders filed in to follow her downhill, humming the ancient tune, low and soothing, the sun's lullaby. They were closing the space behind her and obscuring Éomer's sight. He felt the urge to also follow her, to stay close should she stumble, but the ritual bound him to his place on the terrace of the Golden Hall. Ever more distant the light of the torch shone, until its bearer bent around the corner and disappeared between some of the larger buildings that lined the central square.

Anticipation mixed with worry filled him, and it seemed like an eternity till a general cry of rejoicing rose up from the lower part of the town. _She had managed! _His little girl had performed her first duty to her people as a member of the king's household, spoken the sacred words and lit the solstice fire, pyre of the dead sun and cradle of the sun reborn. He could not help the smile that crept into his face, and Frithuswith clearing her throat with ostentation at his unduly display did not dampen his joy. From the square now pipes and fiddles fell in with the drums that had taken up a skipping rhythm. He would have to wait till a delegation of matrons from the different quarters of town would ceremonially return Gytha to him after having danced around the fast building up blaze of the bonfire, and then the distribution of the meat would mark the beginning of a feast that would not stop as long as any Eorling was still standing.

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><p><strong>Annotations:<strong>

**Lihtung:** (Rohirric/Old English) kindling, illumination

**Éofor:** youngest son of Brego, Eorl's son, second king of the Riddermark, Éomund's ancestor

The **winter solstice ritual** is my own "invention", but it is based on the Germanic and Nordic myth that the sun, being chased across the sky by wolves, grows weak and is devoured by them. But before she dies, she gives birth to a new sun. With bonfires Men greet the Daughter-Sun and as well guide and protect her in the first moment of her life.


	27. Chapter 27

Thanks for reading and especially for reviewing. I hope you'll enjoy the chapter though it has not been betaed yet, because **sep 12 **is overburdened with work at the moment.

**Hi sep! Hope you are fine and recovering from last week's onslaught! :-)**

So here comes Winter Solstice at Edoras in the middle of the summer holidays. (It is really weird to write those winter scenes while outside everything is green.)

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><p><strong>Chapter 27<strong>

Éomer was leaning against one of the many columns, a tankard of ale in hand, his gaze lazily scanning the hall. It was late, but he was not sure how late exactly. But it did not matter. And he was drunk. That he knew for sure. He just could not make up his mind how drunk he was, but that did not really matter either. It was Yule, and up in the hall and down in the different quarters of Edoras people were revelling, sated with food and drink, enjoying what life had to offer.

Gytha had bid him good night and left for her chamber some time ago, when the first guests had started to demonstrate that they had had more ale and mead than was good for them. Frithuswith had ushered her out of the hall.. _Probably Frithuswith was the only sober person in the entire Golden Hall._ _Wulf of Dunland must have attacked Edoras on a Yule night to have been able to conquer Meduseld. _He chuckled at the disrespect of the thought.

The noise in the hall was deafening. The musicians were playing a swift reel, with a dozen of couples whirling around on the dance-floor, cheering with the tune of the dance, while in one of the corners a group of Riders were sitting around one of the large tables, bellowing one of the well-known battle-songs. Everywhere people sat or stood, drinking, talking, and laughing at the expense of those who, filled to their eyes with ale and mead, had put their heads on the tables and snored.

Taking in the numbers of passed out men, Éomer concluded it must be considerably late. He drenched his tankard and belched. The sting of a beginning heartburn caused him to rap his fist at his sternum. _That's what you get from too much mead! _ He cursed under his breath. It would be worse in the morning and he already knew he would have the mother of headaches. But there had been no possibility to forego even one of the many cups he had drained after Frithuswith had announced that this year's Yule mead had been made with honey sent by the future queen from Dol Amroth.

He grimaced. It certainly had been no good idea to get that sloshed, for blowing the horn to greet the rising sun in the morning would certainly split his head. He still cringed at the memory of last year's solstice and it was cold comfort to imagine that the others would at least suffer from his horn-blowing, too. Perhaps he had better be off to bed. He hesitated. For the first time since his sixteenth year he would go to bed alone on a solstice night. That was nothing to look forward to. Perhaps he should just go and get some fresh air to clear his head and keep the self-pity at bay. Without being noticed, he took the door that led to the kitchens and the servants' quarters and silently slipped out.

The crispy cold of the night felt good on his face, despite the smoke from the bonfire that still hung in the air. Following the path that wound around the upper part of the hill, Éomer made for the garden. The White Mountains were not visible in the darkness, but nevertheless he turned into their direction. _Was she still in Dol Amroth?_ If she was, she would not get his letter before the beginning of the new year. That letter he had finally managed to write and that would never match the sensuality of hers, no matter what he felt for her, no matter how much he longed to hold her in his arms, to kiss her, taste her, take her... _I know_ y_ou took me in my dreams for I found myself throbbing for you when I woke_... _A dream, nothing but a dream. _And one that would take three more months to come true if everything went well. Like so many nights before, he desperately wished to be with her, feel her, imagined her to whisper the words she had written... Surprised he found his body reacting to his thoughts. Either he was not really that drunk or the cold had already cleared his head somehow. Perhaps if he sat down on one of the benches for a while, the worst of his befuddlement would ease.

Climbing a small flight of steps that led to one of the bowers, he sat down, leaning his dizzy head against one of the slender pillars that held the canopy consisting of the intertwined boughs of a rambling rose. He remembered having seen it bloom, veiling the entire bower in sweet smelling shadow, but he realised that he did not remember what colour the blossoms had been. He closed his eyes. Come summer he would know. He would take her to this bower, his wife, in summer, when the nights were dulcet, sweet with the fragrance of the roses. _He would take her... Sweet roses... What colour were they?... What colour were her nipples?... Roses... Rosebuds... Sweet..._

He must have dozed off despite the cold, for he woke from the sound of someone having a coughing fit. He felt unoriented for a moment, until he heard voices from the main path below that lead down to the lane.

"Steady, Guthmear. Now, let's walk on a bit. There's a bench just round the bend. You had better sit down a moment before we continue."

Éomer recognised the voice of old Harding, who had been in charge of the garden until old age and Gríma's interference had forced him to quit working several years ago.

"Are you sure it's a shortcut? And are we on the right path at all?" Another old man's voice, tight with exhaustion after coughing and slightly slurring with drunkenness.

Harding chuckled. "Guth, I have been working here for the better time of my life. I know the place like the back of my hand. Come now, here we are. Be careful to sit on your cloak though. It's a stone-bench and probably damned cold. Will make your balls shrivel."

With a grin Éomer could but agree. The bench in the bower was made of wooden planks, but just the same the cold was creeping rather uncomfortably through his breeches. A noise between cough and laughter could be heard from below. "Never mind, as long as there is anything left to shrivel."

From the sound of it, both men had sat down, and for a split second Éomer thought to make his presence known, thinking of that eavesdropping in Imrahil's garden that had nearly made him leave Dol Amroth at once, but he felt strangely lazy. _And it was his garden, so what the fuck..._

One of the old men honked his nose. "Bloody cold, but man, that was a feast!" It was the one called Guthmaer, and Harding grunted in agreement.

"That mead was not bad at all."

_You had better talk about it the next morning, when your hangover will have the same exquisite quality. _By now, Éomer was enjoying himself exceedingly, waiting with curious glee what would come next.

"Yeah, it's not all bad that comes from the south. Take that corn they brought. Found it rather strange at first, and the bannocks tasted a bit odd, but mind you, it seems to be better for my stomach than barley, not to say anything about rye."

In the darkness of the bower, Éomer gave him a thumbs-up. He loved the taste of wheat-bred, and he wanted the farmers of the Mark to try their hand at cultivating it._ Not bad, to have the old clingers to tradition on your side for something new._

It was Harding who spoke next. "If that princess is as good as the presents she's sent, the Mark will not fare badly, I'd say."

Éomer found it hard to suppress a confirming comment, but old Guthmaer was of a different opinion.

"May be. But he should have taken one from the Mark to keep Eorl's line."

_Fine, we are back to lines now. Éomer, the stallion of the Riddermark. _Éomer's snort was drowned out by Harding's answer.

"Bollocks. Éomer King has Eorl's blood in his veins from his mother's and his father's side. He can well afford to cross-breed with some southern blood if he fancies the woman."

_Yeah, and a sheer black mare from Gondor! What a joy to be the king of a people of dolts!_ Fuelled by the alcohol Éomer's mirth was swiftly changing into stubborn aggressiveness. And his mood was not improved by Guthmaer's next remark.

"May be, but I don't like the idea of having a Stoningland queen and the king's household speaking a different language."

_Béma's balls! For how long would they ruminate that Morwen Cwen preferred speaking Westron? Probably the poor woman had just been a bit daft as far as languages were concerned._ He thought to rise and give the two doters a piece of his mind, but from one corner of his brain that seemingly had not been totally flooded by liquor came the objection that a boozed king taking two soused old codgers to task would probably keep the whole Mark roaring with laughter till next Yule. So he stayed put, and his discretion was rewarded by Harding's answering comment.

"Who says they'll speak the Common Tongue? Théngel King had lived with Queen Morwen for years in Gondor before coming back to the Mark. It was just natural that they spoke Westron. This time it's different, mark my words. They say, Éomer King even sent a scribe over to Dol Amroth to teach her the language."

Éomer smirked. They would be more than surprised by her knowledge of the language, especially the more colourful expressions. But the mentioning of the scribe at least put Guthmaer's misgivings to rest.

"Ah well." The old man cumbersomely cleared his throat. "We'll see about that. At least she's trying. And that trade certainly does the Mark some good, whatever they say about the rising price of cloth. And that wood for the granaries was truly splendid."

Éomer's ears pricked up and he leaned over the balustrade of the bower.

"Aye." Harding's answer came slow, the drink obviously having its effect on him, too. "Did you see those carvings?"

"No, but my grand-daughter told me about them. Six ears of barley!" Guthmaer chuckled. "But then, she comes from a fertile line. Three elder brothers as I was told, all of them able warriors."

Eomer's forehead dropped on the balustrade. _Where was the need for written communication in the Mark if rumours and gossip travelled faster than a galloping mearh?_

"I've seen the one that stays here at the moment once or twice. On the training grounds I mean. Not bad the man. And not an eyesore either. Do you know anything about the rest of her family?"

Raising his head again, Éomer was as eager for the answer as old Harding.

"Her mother breeds horses I was told. And Prince Imrahil is said to have the only cavalry worth mentioning in all of Stoningland."

It was now that Éomer remembered, who that Guthmear was: Wictred the cook's father. _So obviously the kitchens of Meduseld were well-informed. The only thing left now was Firefoot's performance in Dol Amroth._

But obviously that piece of information had not reached the kitchens yet. Harding seemed to be impressed by the news and for a while said nothing. When he took up the conversation after a while, his voice was audibly thoughtful. "So horse-breeders it is... Ah well, Éomund's son surely knew how to chose well for the Mark." There was another pause, Harding having dropped again into drunken contemplation. After a while he spoke again, still in the same earnest tone. "But man, to forego the women, even at solstice... That certainly is hard."

Guthmaer noisily cleared his throat and spat. "I'll be buggered if I understand what he did at Beaccotlif, but he seems to have taken a kind of vow. Some say it's to enhance the fertility of the fields."

Éomer found it difficult to keep from snorting with laughter. _To enhance the fertility of the fields...Edith would laugh her arse off if she could hear them._

"Nay, I don't believe that. I bet it rather has to do with the one field he's planning to plough in March." Harding's chuckling ended in a drunken hiccup. "Six eaves, man! That's quite a promise!"

_Aye, and what a fine one! His pirate, his wife... three sons and three daughters... If he could only start making them... _Even in his befuddled state Éomer realised he was back to self-pity. But it did not last long, for Guthmaer laughed.

"Simmer down, Harding! He's not going to make them all in one go."

Éomer found it hard to suppress a groan at the stupidity of the jibe.

"No, certainly not." The old gardener got over his mirth, though his voice was far from sober. "But mind my words: There is something behind his abstinence. He surely has some deal with Erce herself. Why else would he have barged in at the ritual? But great boons come at a cost. I think the bloke is just saving up."

Not only Éomer had problems to follow Harding's mead-inspired theory. Guthmaer, ever the doubtful, voiced his disbelieve. "What? Deal with the goddess? You're pulling my leg, aren't you?"

But Harding was not to be swayed. "No, just think straight about it. He was at Erce's ritual, and put up a mighty show, didn't he?"

His friend grunted his affirmation.

"Well, and after that he quits shagging for the entire winter. Man, the entire winter, do you get me? Erce protecting the seeds, you see?"

The old gardener audibly was delighted by his own power of imagination, and Éomer simply went slack-jawed. But Harding continued to crow out the result of his tankard-deep philosophising: "And then, come spring: Bang! And Eorl's line will be secured. Mind me, next Yule we'll have an heir to the throne. Nine months sharp plus a sennight's allowance. With mares and women one can't be that sure."

Éomer gulped. The old gardener certainly had quite a lot of confidence in his procreative capacity... and in Erce's good will. Guthmaer on the other hand was not one to be easily fooled. "How much did you bet on it?"

"Five wethers' fleeces." Harding's answer came promptly.

_He should have known! _Éomer was torn between dismay and laughter. Morgoth knew the day when the Eorlingas would let a good chance for a wager pass unused.

"That's a lot, Harding. And risky if you go for nine months sharp." Despite his obvious drunkenness, Guthmaer's brain was still working.

But Harding stood his ground. "There are others who even put more on the queen conceiving right in the wedding night. That's the only way to make a win. Believe me, there's no one in all of Edoras who does not expect a child during their first year."

_A child... She had called it the miracle she wanted to experience herself...Their child..._Éomer's nostalgic mood was interrupted by Guthmaer's sceptical comment.

"Well, I would think that quite reasonable, but bull's eye at first shot and an heir, that's a bit too much."

_But it would be so bloody nice..._Crossing his arms on the balustrade, Éomer put his head on them. _A child to please his pirate, his queen with the midnight hair..._

"Pha! I can't imagine a warrior like him to go for anything less. And why not? They say he's truly smitten with her. Wait and see. I bet you, he won't let her out of the bed before he's sure she's up the pole."

Éomer had to admit that Harding's idea sounded convincing and promised a lot of fun. He smirked, imagining the dumbfounded faces of the Eorlingas, if the king and queen of the Mark really would stay in bed for at least a month. But again Guthmaer's proved to be the spoil-sport.

"I don't know. I mean, she's a princess and she's from Gondor... who knows, perhaps she's a bit... well... delicate. And then most probably she's a virgin. That demands a bit of restraint on the groom's side."

Éomer blinked, and then cursed under his breath. Sober or drunk, he had never wasted any idea on that. _A virgin. Certainly she was one, and certainly that demanded restraint... But how could he...Béma, how could he restrain himself once he had her in his arms?_

"Do you really think she is? I mean, they are betrothed, and they say he's mad about her..." Harding had difficulties to imagine anybody not using a given opportunity, but Guthmaer obviously had a more sophisticated horizon.

"Ah well, things are a bit different with the high and mighty. And it's two different countries. There'll be contracts and such."

_If you knew how many contracts! _Éomer felt strangely satisfied that at least that part of his sufferings were registered by his subjects. And Harding seemed to be convinced.

"You're probably right. He wouldn't have waited more than six months if he could have had her earlier. Rather would have used the time to achieve the wanted result. Come on now, let's get you home lest your cough gets worse."

Éomer waited until the sound of their steps had died away and then rose. Though still feeling fairly sloshed, he did not feel dizzy any more, which he found a certain improvement. On the other hand he was cold to the marrow and he cursed his stupidity to sit down in the garden and fall asleep not even wearing a cloak. _His bride was a virgin and he had to wait three more months..._He shook himself like a wet dog to clear his head and nearly toppled over in the process. _That much for not feeling dizzy any more_. He decided he had better go back inside and made for the side entrance.

Passing the guards' room he entered his study. The peat fire was glowing in the hearth and after the frost outside it seemed very warm. For a moment he thought about ordering a tankard of ale, but remembering his duties the next morning, he decided to simply pour himself a mug of water from the jug on the bedside stand. The hearth in his bedroom was not lit, but as the door had been standing open for the better part of the evening, it also was warm. For a moment he stood undecided whether to go to bed, but then he went back to his desk. If he could not have her in his bed tonight, at least he would read her letters again, imagining her in his arms, whispering the words in his ear.

Carefully he put the pile of letters on his desk. Even in his drunken state he knew them by heart, and the mere reading of the first lines brought the various contents before his inner eye: the wood for the first béowbur, the memory of their meeting in Imrahil's private garden, her taunting fantasies as well as her worries and nightmares, the longing, the sensuality... Three more months to wait...but he would have to restrain himself not to hurt or frighten her. _Béma, why had the thought that she was a virgin never before entered his mind? But he would do what was necessary..._ His hands caressed the pages. There was one thing he was sure of: There was no life for him without her...

**ooo**

_He was alone, walking in a haze of thick clammy mist. He could not see anything around him, not even his own feet through the veil of the fog, but he felt short-cropped grass under his naked feet as he walked. There was no point of orientation whatsoever and he did not know where he was, did not know where he was heading to, but he realised with a strange sensation of surprise that he knew where his aim lay._

_He knew that he had to reach it if he wanted to get out of the fog, back into the sun, back to life. He wanted to run, reach the end of the cold mist around him, but he could not. His body seemed to be beyond his mental reach, moving on its own account, his feet taking one stubborn step after the other, slowly but steadily. He breathed deep, trying to comprehend what was going on, but his thoughts got tangled, like threads cut loose on a loom, and then there was only the uncontrollable and overwhelming feeling of being drawn towards something like metal to a lodestone._

_Gradually the fog cleared in front of him, rose in twisting swirls, slowly revealing the outlines of a béowbur. He walked up to it, climbed the stones that formed the stairs in front of it and stepped over the gap onto the narrow terrace in front of the door, yearning tearing at his heart, his soul. Painful, irresistible, causing his breath to come in agonised gasps._

_The wood of the granary was grey, colourless under the cold blanket of mist that still shut out the sun. He felt his heartbeat speed up, despair rising within him. He needed the sun... He needed to get into the béowbur... He needed... His hands touched the door latch. It did not move. He pushed. Nothing. He felt the fog closing him in, cold fingers reaching out, touching his flesh, his heart. He was naked, exposed to the moist, freezing touch. His heartbeat threatened to burst his ribcage. He needed to get into the béowbur! In a desperate motion he fell to his knees, pressed his swiftly cooling body against the door. He needed..._

_And then there was no door in front of him any more, nothing that hindered him to enter. Staggering, he rose, stepping into the darkness of the granary, his heart beating the rhythm of the drum. He knew were the sacred rune was, token of the circle of life. Searching, his hands reached out to touch it in the darkness of the room. Erce eorthan modor... life. The wall was so far away. He felt his panic rise as he could not reach it. The room seemed to stretch endlessly. There was but darkness around him. Darkness... and grain under his feet. Grain... moving grain... rising grain... grain flowing against him like living water, pooling around his ankles, his calves... rising, threatening to flush him out of the béowbur. _

_Leaning forwards in the sword fighter's stance, he found a stable standing, and suddenly there was light. Warm, yellow light, a sunbeam illumining the floating grain. Sun. Life. The grain was flowing, whispering, calling his name._

_And then there was something rising out of the grain in that shaft of light, of life. A head, raised arms, cream-coloured against the black veil of silken hair floating down the woman's body as she rose, the grain rolling off her naked form like living drops of water. He could not see her face, he did not need to... Life! He tried to reach her, his body hot and hard with desire, but the current of the grain increased, causing him to lose his foothold. He wanted to scream, but he could not. And suddenly there was the end of a line in his hand, a thin dark red cord. He wrapped it around his palm, and with a low-pitched chuckle the woman pulled him closer and closer without any effort. The grain still flowed, flowed around him without hampering him any more, flowed endlessly, out of the door of the granary, spreading over the plains outside. He could not see her face, as she wound the cord around her right wrist, until it formed a red, livid ridge around her wrist like an angry scar._

_He was so close now, so close... And the grain was flowing out of the granary, her skin smelling of sunshine and peaches. And then he reached her, desperate with need and desire, but with that challenging chuckle she tossed her black mane and turned, as if to run from him. With a hoarse cry he lunged out, stumbled, fell... and felt her below him. The curve of her hip under his clutching hands, the round firmness of her buttocks against his throbbing member. He held her, pressing his face between her shoulder blades, breathing in her scent, her body his only support as they sank into the flowing, whispering grain. _

_Whispering grain... whispering voices... laughter... And then there were no walls any more, no grain, just sun and air and the grass of the plains under his naked feet and the air was filled with tiny voices... children's laughter. And far away there was a jet-black mare galloping towards the westering sun. _

_He ran, joy filling his entire being, strength pulsing through him as he sped after her. And suddenly he was air-borne, soaring high over the plains, flying towards her, the green grass of the plains below, and the grass turned into ripe barley, stretching golden till the horizon. And a black mare stood in the glow of the setting sun, pawing the ground and tossing her splendid mane._

"Éomer." The voice seemed so far away, yet familiar. "Éomer?" Strong hands shook his shoulders, and wearily he opened his eyes. "Good morning, Éomer Cyning." Éothain's blurred, grinning face appeared before his eyes. "You had better sleep in your bed instead at your desk."

Rising his head, Éomer became painfully aware that he had obviously had at least one mug too many last night. There seemed to be a gang of very industrious dwarves, happily hammering away in his head, and his mouth not only felt like filled with wool, but gave him the distinctive taste of something that had been dead for quite a long while. Surprising enough, his stomach did not complain.

He stretched his cramped shoulders. No doubt he had fallen asleep at his desk, while trying to read his future wife's letters. The drawer was still open, and a neat pile of beige paper set out on the desk top, while the one he had been reading was spread out before him. He carefully folded it and put it away, together with the other letters. He vaguely remembered that he had wanted to write a letter to Lothíriel. And that dream... He heaved a deep breath. Why had that dolt to wake him exactly at that point of that incredible dream! Desperately he tried to grasp at the bits and pieces he remembered. He could not suppress a grin. At least some parts of his body seemed to remember very well, given the stirring in his loins.

Looking up, he met Éothain's gaze, his friend visibly fighting a lost battle against mirth. He grunted. "Man, you had better wipe that smirk off your face or I'll disrate you."

Doubling over with laughter, Éothain slumped down on the chair opposite the desk. "Béma's balls! It's such a pity Master Calimab has already packed his utensils. You look really fit for a very interesting portrait for your lady." His broad shoulders heaved, as he tried in vain to cease laughing.

Éomer rose. He knew he would have teased his friend as mercilessly, had he found him in a similar situation, and so he decided to take the jibes in his stride. With mock complaint he raised his eyebrows. "Éothain, what's that funny about a lone man, getting sloshed and reading his betrothed's letters, as he can't have her near? You had a warm and welcoming bed last night, so you should rather pity me."

Getting the better of his mirth, Éothain stood to leave the room. "I came to wake you for the greeting of the Sun Reborn, as we had agreed. But there's no need to hurry. Do you feel up to down some breakfast?"

Éomer nodded, realising at the same instant that that movement was not one his head was overly fond of at the moment. "But no ale, my head feels like a dwarven forge. Actually some of Frithuswith's special herb-mixture might not be amiss." He rubbed his temples and walked over to the dressing room, while Éothain went to order some servant about breakfast for the king. His hand already on the doorknob, the captain of the Royal Guard turned again.

"Éomer, if I were you, I would have a peek into that mirror of yours."

The door closed behind him and Éomer looked into the polished silver-plate that served as a mirror in the royal quarters. He blinked. Where his face had touched her letter, his sweaty skin had obviously wetted the ink, and now, there high on his left cheekbone, he could read in her distinct hand: _Lothíriel._

* * *

><p><strong>Annotations:<strong>

**wether:** castrated male sheep; their fleeces are larger than the ones of ewes (female sheep) and very often have a better quality


	28. Chapter 28

Thanks a lot to all of you still reading this story, and a virtual cup of rose and honey ice-cream to all who reviewed. The heat-wave has finally reached Germany, though it will be rather short-lived. But if you are sweating: Here comes a bit of winter in Rohan. ;-)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 28<strong>

The blasting pain he felt in his head when blowing the horn was even worse than he had expected, but strange enough when the Éoreds were assembling in the stable yard for their departure to Gondor, less than an hour later, he already felt remarkably better. Which could not be said of Erchirion, who looked satisfyingly suffering. Even Winfrid looked the worse for wear, probably nursing the first hang-over of his life.

On the large table nearest to the door, women were arranging trays of small mead-filled cups: The traditional stirrup cup the women of the household would be distributing to the Riders that were about to leave.

"Good morning, Éomer Faeder." Gytha's brisk voice made Éomer swivel round, and to his surprise he found his daughter clad in cloak and boots.

"Good morning Gytha. Venturing out than early?"

The girl shook her head. "Frithuswith and Lady Mildred suggested I should participate in serving the stirrup cup." She blushed and then added: "They say I am the highest-ranked lady at the moment, even if I'm not a woman yet. And the men would see it as a good omen because I'm a child of the Blessing."

That certainly was right, but he could not help the twitch of uneasiness. To light the solstice fire was one thing and fit for a young girl but to speed the Riders on their way to… He checked himself. The Éoreds were not riding off to war and death... Not yet. And certainly Frithuswith knew what she was doing. Sheprobably had heard some gossip about the Riders talking. A good omen. He suppressed a snort. No doubt they really were a superstitious lot.

He smiled at her encouragingly and was just about to step outside for the farewell of the Riders, when a commotion at the door of the hall caught his attention. It was caused by Calimab, already clad for travelling, followed by two lads carrying some wrapped, oblong item that obviously was rather heavy. Putting it on one of the large tables, they stepped back, making room for the old carpenter, who fussed a bit with placing the thing, before turning towards Éomer.

"My Lord King." Bowing low, the Gondorean waited to be spoken to. When Éomer acknowledged him, the old carpenter cleared his voice. "Éomer King, by your admission I have been able to study the ancient carvings of Meduseld, which is one of the things I will remember as long as I live. And as I'm leaving now for Gondor, I would like to express my gratitude for your kind hospitality. I hope you will receive my humble gift."

With that he removed the cloth, and Éomer found it hard not to blink in surprise. The other people around him felt no such need of self-restraint, as the admiring murmurs showed. Calimab had clearly outdone himself. The carving stood approximately three feet high, its centre being a sword, standing upright on what seemed to be rocky ground. As typical of pear-wood the centre was visibly darker than the rest of the carving, creating an impressive contrast, but that rest was undoubtedly fit to take the beholder's breath away: The body of a dragon, its mighty wings folded on the scaled back, was standing on its hind legs, the claws of its feet digging into the rock, its snakelike body winding around the sword. The claws of the forefeet were clenching the guard of the sword, while the mighty head was lowered and resting on the pommel. With every detail masterly worked, from the slitted pupils of the dragon, the scales of different sizes and shapes, to the eagle-like talons, the sculpture seemed to breathe, ready to take wing any moment.

Seriously Éomer nodded his thanks. "Your work does you proud, Master Calimab of Dol Amroth, and gladly I receive you gift and assure you it will have a place of honour in Meduseld."

A brief smile flitted over the old man's face and he bowed again and then took up a paper-case he had put on the table beside the statue. "Éomer King, you have said to me, that Mistress Frithuswith is her own mistress, but will you allow me to address her here in your hall?"

Éomer felt irritated. It would not do to refuse Calimab's request, lest he contradicted his own statement. _What was the old fox up to?_ He looked over to Frithuswith who stood near the table with the cups and found the housekeeper unnaturally pale. "If she grants being addressed by you, I see no reason to intervene, Master Calimab."

Bowing again to him, the old carpenter turned towards Frithuswith, holding out the case to her. "Mistress Frithuswith, I was thoroughly saddened to learn about your misgivings concerning my sketches. I beg you to take this as a token of trust and concern."

He lowered his head and Frithuswith took the case with a slight nod, her features seemingly composed, but Éomer could not help the impression that her lips were clamped just a bit too tight for her being at ease. Taking a step back, Calimab looked her straight in the face. She did not avert her eyes, but the muscles of her jaw bulged slightly, as if she was gritting her teeth. And suddenly here was something in the old man's bearing, some sudden resolve that startled Éomer. Alarmed he meant to intervene, but Calimab spoke before he could stop him.

"Frithuswith of Meduseld, I will be leaving, and if it is your will, I'll leave for good. But hear me out before." He spoke seriously and slowly, his voice raspy with suppressed emotion. "I do not speak your language, I'm a stranger in your land. But I'm no green boy, Frithuswith. I'm old and have seen my share of the world. There are different languages and different customs, but honour and decency, trust and love certainly do not differ in our countries. And therefore I speak to you in a way that would be deemed proper and honourable in the country I was born." He stopped, heaving a breath to steady himself. "Frithuswith of Meduseld, here before your king and a prince of my country I ask you for your hand in marriage. I am leaving now, giving you time until spring to consider my proposal, and should you find it not agreeable, you shall not be forced to set eyes on me again"

Murmuring rose around them, as those who understood the Common Tongue translated to those who didn't, feet shuffled, somewhere in the background a female voice exclaimed in surprise, but Frithuswith stood and said nothing, her face as pale as a linen sheet. The old carpenter made no attempt to touch her, but instead stepped back further. Bowing low to her, with his hand at his chest, he turned, and bowing likewise to Éomer and Erchirion, he left the hall.

The blood returning into her face, Frithuswith handed the case to Winfrid, ordering him to take it to her room, and seemingly unimpressed turned towards the tables with the cups. She reached for one of the trays, but when Ymma appeared at her side, whispering into her ear, she nodded and let the younger woman carry it for her. That was the sign for the other women to pick up the trays, and together with them Éomer, Gytha and Erchirion went down to the already mounted Riders to bid them farewell.

Of Calimab nothing was to be seen. Probably he was with the men of the baggage, transporting whatever the troops that were to come after them would need. Éomer was loath with the man for Frithuswith's sake, and yet he could not help understanding, nay, even admiring the old carpenter's action. Unless he was an expert play-act, Calimab had acted on the spur of the moment and his assault had doubtlessly been daring. Thoughtfully Éomer sucked his teeth. _That old stallion did not seem in danger to be put out to pasture yet. _

Like Frithuswith had assumed, Gytha's participation at the distribution of the stirrup cup was highly appreciated by the Riders, and though not standing amongst them, Éomer overheard more than one remark that made him feel rather concerned about the coming years, as far as young Riders and his daughter were concerned.

And then the first Éoreds left for Gondor. Standing on the terrace of the Golden Hall, Éomer clenched his fists, watching them ride towards the ford of the Snowbourn. The Mark's forces were riding to war, and he was staying behind! He only realised that he must have been glaring, when Erchirion at his side cleared his throat.

"Have a ride, Brother. You and your cantankerous beast of a destirer will certainly improve each other's mood. There is nothing you can do about it, and I'm not fit yet to keep you company and cheer you up. I'll hit the sack for some more hours. We'll leave in three days, and hopefully I'll be sober again until then."

**ooo**

The day passed without further incidents, but Éomer noticed that it was Ymma who supervised the laying of the table in Frithuswith's place. He would have liked to do something, anything to help the old housekeeper, but he knew she would not let him interfere. He just hoped that some hours in peace and privacy would do her good.

Éomer was discussing the possibility of growing some wheat in the Mark next year with Eáldread and Éothain after the evening meal in the hall, trying to work out with the help of the old counsellor's and his friend's knowledge who might be willing to try and where a crop might be promising, when Winfrid approached them. The boy put a fresh jug of ale on the table, but when retreating, he whispered for nobody but Éomer to hear: "Sire, may I speak to you in private?"

Surprised, Éomer looked up, but seeing his squire's obvious nervousness, he just nodded.

The boy waited for him behind the door to the royal quarters.

"What's wrong, Winfrid?"

"Gytha, Sire. We went riding and..."

Alarmed Éomer grabbed his arm. "What happened? Did she have an accident? Was she thrown?"

Winfrid shook his head. "No, Sire, nothing like that. But she seems to be in pain. It looked as if she had cramps. We returned and she took to her room and I informed Frithuswith, who is with her now. But I thought you had better know."

When Éomer stormed into Gytha's room, he found his daughter sitting curled up in a large upholstered chair near the fireside, her face glowing with excitement. Before he could say anything, two maids entered, one carrying a flat heated stone, wrapped in a woollen cloth, while the other put a jug that obviously contained some herb-tea on the table. Taking the hot stone, Frithuswith put it on Gytha's abdomen and then poured her a cup of the steaming tea.

Pulling up her knees to keep the stone in place, Gytha took the cup and sniffed it. Frithuswith laughed. "It's just lady's mantle and yarrow. That should not taste too bad."

Gytha pouted. "A bit of honey would not have been amiss though."

Only now Éomer found his tongue. "Gytha, Winfrid informed me you were taken ill, having cramps and here I find you, complaining about the taste of..."

Frithuswith's chuckle stopped him short. "Winfrid is right, Éomer King. She was having cramps, but it's nothing that can't be remedied with some warmth and some herbs." Smiling she handed him a cup of tea. "Here, have some. It helps against colics, too."

Gytha giggled, her eyes shining. Éomer was at a loss, but he took the cup and sat down on the chest near the window. Sighing with mock pity, Frithuswith put her hand on his shoulder. "Well, Éomer King, you are certainly an old man now. Your daughter has entered her first circle of the moon."

He nearly choked on the tea. "What? When? Now?"

Gytha nodded. "I felt it when I was out, riding with Winfrid. But I didn't know what it was."

Grunting to hide his emotion, he put the cup down. "You frightened the poor lad to death, Dohtor."

"Pha, for someone frightened to death he acted very farseeing. But I had better tell the boy that everything is alright." With that Frithuswith left the room and Éomer went over to Gytha's chair. Squatting before her, he stroked her glowing cheek.

"Well, Gytha Dohtor, who would have thought of that. You are a big girl now, my little one." He rose and kissed the crown of her head. "I'm proud of you, Gytha."

She beamed at him with sparkling eyes. "I'm so happy Éomer Faeder. Just think of it: With the next shearing I'll start making my Bryd Baelc."

**ooo**

Éomer stretched and yawned, nearly unhinging his jaws. It was late and he would leave for Aldburg tomorrow, accompanying Erchirion who was leaving with the last Éored riding south. And he would escort Gytha back to Aldburg. In front of him on the desk was a list of villages and farmers who were thought fit by Éothain and Eáldread to be the first trying the cultivation of wheat in the area around Edoras. It had taken his friend but two days to collect the information who actually liked the southern grain and would be willing to participate, as they had not seen it wise with all the other influences that had come from Gondor during the last years to force any farmer against his will to plant it.

Acwuld, a well-known farmer and an acknowledged authority as far as grain went, was willing to travel south during the winter to get the necessary information, lest the campaign become a failure, and tomorrow Éomer would talk to Elfhelm to launch a similar action in the Folde. He was not sure about the Westfold though. Certainly there were areas that were fit and farmers who were willing to try, but he did not want to risk a meagre harvest, and be it only on some small fields in an area that had been hit so hard by the impact of the war.

Just when he was considering to call it a day, there was a knock at the door, and Frithuswith entered, carrying a smallish tray with a bowl and some nut-cakes. When she put the tray on his desk he saw that it held stewed apples and nut cakes, the favourite sweets of his childhood. Reaching for the bowl and the wooden spoon, he grinned at her. "Are you trying to bribe me into something?"

She shrugged, and pulling one of the chairs close, she sat down. "May be. But it was rather an excuse to come to your study that late." She grinned. "Everybody in the kitchens knows that you would kill for stewed apples and nut-cakes."

He stopped slurping the juice and winked at her over the brim of the bowl. "Am I really that bad?"

Frithuswith chuckled. "Worse. Do you remember that you threatened to cut Éowyn's braids off because she had pinched your portion?"

"Ah well." He shrugged, reaching for one of the cakes. "You have to admit that it was not the first time she did so. How is Gytha?"

His daughter had been at Éothain's in the afternoon, eager to come to know the girl that had woven the beautiful ribbon her father had given to her, but she had been strangely listless at dinner and taken to her room immediately after the meal.

"She's alright, Éomer. Let her be a bit moody, she'll get over it. I think it's just a bit too much for her all in all." The old housekeeper shrugged. "I know grown up women who are worse having their monthly flow. You just have to accept it. I think she is a bit overwhelmed, and also a bit homesick. Nothing a good night's sleep cannot cure"

"Homesick?"

"Éomer, she has grown up with a bunch of younger brothers, and now she's not only alone for the first time in her life, but also a thousand exciting things happen. She's exhausted. And I suppose seeing Éothain's brats she realised she misses her siblings. And I'm afraid she might have heard some of the gossip and all this together is a bit too much for her."

"What gossip?" He put down the last cake, his appetite suddenly gone.

Frithuswith grimaced. "There was some frowning at her serving the cups. You know, because she's too young and all that stuff. But I thought it more important to keep the leaving Riders content than some cork-brained gossips back home. Well, and then, the very same day, she enters the circles. The news had already spread before I ever had a chance to get back to the kitchen and knock some sense into what little brains they have. So, there is the rumour now that you are favoured by the gods, because again you broke their rules but they sent a sign of their consent, having your daughter..."

Éomer's fist slammed down on the desk. "Who's selling that kind of crap? That's stark nonsense!"

"I know. And I tried to make sure that none of the servants or ladies talked about it in her presence. Anyway, the only one that might have done so deliberately to enhance her own importance is Lady Swanhild, and I'm sure that Winfrid has shut her up for good."

"Winfrid has done what?" There were a lot of things Éomer was ready to believe, but not that anyone could stop Lady Swanhild's gab. He shuddered at the mere thought of that self-important and vain woman.

Frithuswith grinned. "Oh, he informed her, that if a certain lady would not leave Gytha alone, he would tell in the barracks that at least half of her braids have not grown on her own head."

Éomer looked dumbfounded. "She wears artificial braids?"

Grinning, Frithuswith nodded. "Not a few ladies do, Éomer. But they normally don't demand everybody to admire their full and silky hair. I never noticed Swanhild's false hair myself, but that squire of yours has a keen eye."

Still meeting her with disbelief, Éomer shook his head. "And the boy threatened to spill her secret?"

Frithuswith chuckled. "Oh, he never spoke her name or even looked at her. He told me, but in her presence, and then turned round, smiled at her, bowed and left the room."

Éomer shook his head. "Frithuswith, can you believe that only some months ago the same boy struggled to make Firefoot accept him?"

"They are growing up, Éomer. And they make us feel our age. You were younger than him when you came to Meduseld."

For a while they sat in silence, and Éomer's thought's flew to Gytha..._His little girl... and now... _Grudgingly he had to admit that his heart was not yet ready to accept what his mind comprehended: Gytha would soon be a young woman and the circle of life would start anew.

Pulling himself together, he shook his head. "Well, Frithuswith, are you going to tell me what for you needed any excuse? You know you are always welcome."

She gave him a lopsided smile. "I know, but I did not want to have the gossip-mongers cheer." She lifted the tray a bit and with deft fingers pulled out a paper folder she had been hiding underneath. Éomer immediately recognized the case Calimab had given her two days ago. She hesitated. "I need your help, Éomer."

Éomer tilted his head. "What do you want me to do?"

Heaving a deep breath, she opened the case. "There are letters, Éomer. He has written something into the picture, and I cannot read." She shoved the picture in front of Éomer, and he stared in disbelief.

It showed Calimab's face and shoulders, and yet it did not. The carpenter had drawn in silver-point on vellum, the single lines so faint that the sketched face seemed to be a mere shadow. A shadow of Calimab the Gondorean that radiated tiredness and sorrow. The long face seemed even more haggard than in reality, the lines and wrinkles in it sharp and edgy. The rather thin-lipped mouth was set and the eyes seemed to look into nothingness. But the most stunning difference was the lack of the cap the old carpenter normally wore. For the first time Éomer saw Calimab without it, as the picture openly displayed what the old man had skilfully covered with the grey silk: His entire skull, from its crown to slightly above Calimab's ears was bald, contradicting the still full hair below that line.

Éomer looked up at Frithuswith, pointing at the sketch. "Did you know?"

She nodded. "Yes. He tried to excuse his cap with the fact that he feared to get a headache from the draught. But what do you make of that?" Her forefinger rapped at the bottom of the picture, where on the left side of the picture, right below the lines of the shoulder, a couple of lines were written in artful letters. Slowly he read them out to her.

_To Frithuswith of Meduseld_

_The good artist may perceive the soul behind the surface of a face. The better artist may show the soul's reflection in his work. But not even the best will ever be able to snatch a soul from the person he draws. Mirror his work is, and mirror it will stay, be it of face or soul._

_Here to your hands I give my face, as I would gladly give my soul to ease your misgivings and dispel your fears._

_Calimab, son of Almandil_

"Frithuswith?" With anxiety Éomer looked at Frithuswith's agitated face, but she just shook her head, and reaching into her apron, produced a letter, written on paper.

"There's more of it. This came today by messenger from Aldburg. And the lad who gave it to me told me it was from the carpenter. Go on." She leaned back in the chair in an attempt to appear quiet and relaxed. "And Éomer...I want you to read it to me, not to comment it." She grimaced. "Most probably it's an excuse for his performance in the hall and a withdrawal of his unfortunate proposal. He'll probably blame it on too much breakfast ale."

Éomer did not tell her that he neither believed the letter to contain anything like that, nor that Frithuswith was even close to the indifference she tried to exhibit. Slowly he smoothed out the paper and started to read.

_Westu Frithuswith hal._

_We stay at Aldburg tonight, and as there certainly will be someone going to Edoras tomorrow, willing to take this letter with him, I will take the opportunity to explain myself._

_Forgive my rash actions, but I could not help it. I had not meant to propose to you there in the hall of Meduseld, but I then realised that it probably was the last time I was seeing you, and I did not want to leave you._

_Frithuswith, you say I'm a dreamer, perhaps I am, but I am no fool. I have been a widower for the last ten years, and I never wanted to marry again, for it was a happy marriage and I could not help but compare any woman that stepped into my life with my beloved Nerdanel, and not one I saw fit to take her place in my heart and house._

_And then I met you, and I did not find anything to compare, for you are as different from her in stature and temper as day from night. And I felt I could open my heart again and my soul started to revive. _

_Frithuswith, you too have loved and lost, can you not understand what I feel? True, I do not know anything about life in Rohan, but I am ready to learn, if you are willing to teach me. And certainly I would not be a husband you have to be ashamed of. I am wealthy enough to grant you a comfortable life, no matter where you would like to live. My sons are in their early forties, able shipwrights that will be more than content to take over the family business in Dol Amroth, and their sons are already working on the shipyard, learning the profession from scratch. I would like to spend the years the Valar grant me with sketching and carving, but most of all I would like to spend them at you side._

_Frithuswith, you know that I love you, but because of this love I would understand if you insisted on spending your life unattached as you claimed when I approached you. I want you to be happy, even if it would bring sorrow to me._

_I will stay in Minas Tirith till the end of March, at my brother in law's house. If you decide to have me, send a note to me at Borlim the Engraver's in the forth circle. Should I not hear from you, I promise to leave you alone and drop out of your life, though the short time I spent in your grace will be on my mind till the day I die._

_Calimab _

They sat for a while in silence. Frithuswith's hands nervously worked the hem of her apron, but when Éomer finally addressed her, she snapped at him: "I told you not to comment that letter. If I wanted to have it talked to death I could have asked one of the scribes to read it to me." With a resolute movement she grabbed the paper and shoved it back into her apron. But she did not make to leave, her face in a thoughtful frown. Éomer let her be, knowing she would talk once she had made up her mind.

At last she cleared her throat. "I think it might be a good idea... I mean, when your queen comes to Edoras, I should know at least somehow to write, don't you think so? What with the ledgers and all... and those labels...I suppose it wouldn't be amiss to have a housekeeper that knows to read and write." She avoided his glance, and with quite an effort he managed to suppress his urge to grin.

"You're certainly right, Frithuswith. Do you want me to order one of the scribes to teach you?"

She looked at him, and a sudden grin flashed over her face. "I shouldn't try to fool you, should I? But it would be really helpful if you ordered one to teach me, preferable old Maerec. That would keep some traps shut."

He nodded, grinning from ear to ear. "I will talk to Maerec. But there is a problem, Frithuswith. There are different ways of writing."

"Different ways?"

"Yes, Éowyn and I learned Cirth and Tengwar. Calimab used Tengwar, as it is common in Gondor. But the Rohirrim use the Cirth, the runes, an older way of writing with straight signs that can easier be carved. See, I use Cirth when writing the language of the Mark and Tengwar when writing in the Common Tongue."

She frowned. "That means that the ledgers of Meduseld are written in Cirth?"

"They certainly are."

She pondered that for a while, and then she stood. "Well, it has to be Cirth then." And with a malicious grin she added. "If he wants to live in the Mark, he had better learn it anyway."

* * *

><p><strong>Annotations:<strong>

**pear wood: **sought-after wood for fine carvings; the heart wood sometimes is much darker than the rest of the trunk.

**lady's mantle and yarrow: **These herbs can be used for different purposes, but they both help to ease menstrual pains. And they do not taste that bad. :-D (Willow bark is certainly much worse!)

**Bryd Baelc**: A blanket, the first one every young woman of the Eorlingas will produce totally on her own, from shearing to the finished blanket, to announce that she is a member of adult society. (All the work will probably take an entire year, so Gytha will be about fourteen when she finishes it).

**bryd: **(Rohirric/Old English) bride; lass; young woman

**baelc: **((Rohirric/Old English) coverlet; blanket

Well, and certainly that custom has been "invented" by me, but I thought it would fit in nicely with the other "traditions", reflecting the Rohirric way of living.

As for the use of the names Nerdanel and Swanhild: I just could not resist to name the craftsman's wife after Feanor's spouse, and though the Swanhild of the Sagas was bleaching her hair and not using artificial braids I though her not unfitting to represent a certain vanity.


	29. Chapter 29

My last week of holidays, and here comes another chapter. Special thanks go to the ladies of the "Garden of Ithilien" who not only helped me with the English language in general but also with the tricky problem to figure out what would be some rather special expressions like "Torfstich", "Dobben" and "Schwingrasen" in Englisch. (I bet you, a lot of Germans do not even know what these words mean in German. ;-D)

And it goes without saying that I thank all of you who are still following my cruelties towards the horselord, and as always especially those who take the time and review. Enjoy reading!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 29<strong>

Éomer looked up at the mighty beams that held the roof of the hall of Aldburg. He had refused to join Erchirion and Elfhelm who were at the camps east of Aldburg, where the last two Éoreds that were to leave for Gondor had put up their tents. He would see them off tomorrow morning, but had insisted not to execute the last checks and talks as Elfhelm was in command as a Marshal of the Mark, and he wanted the Riders' attention to focus on Elfhelm. He knew that was only half the truth. He had difficulties to check his irritation at having to stay behind, and he did not want to take any risk of his temper to flare. So now he was pacing the hall, trying to distract himself from anything that was going on outside.

Older even than Meduseld it was smaller than the Golden Hall, but its general features were much the same: A large single room with two rows of richly engraved wooden columns that supported the roof. The tiles of the floor were simpler, but like in Meduseld there was an oblong fire-pit in the centre of the hall, and there was a similar dais where the head of the household, his family and guests of honour would sit while the hall itself was furnished with long benches and trestle tables that could easily be cleared away.

Gytha and Winfrid had gone for a ride but were expected back any moment, as Gytha was riding Hraefn bareback, the mare being ridden for the first time after the birth of Sundergiefu. Ceadda had allowed them to go for a short round through the frozen fields, the sturdy filly eagerly following her mother, and Gytha had promised to be careful. Éomer smiled. First thing at their arrival Gytha had made Winfrid stand with his back against the door frame of the stable, proving that he in earnest had grow three fingers, if only three of her slender ones, since his last visit. _She was doing well, his daughter._ He was pleased with what her grandparents had told him about her. She was intelligent and industrious though often headstrong but all in all eager to learn.

.

The day had started sunny, but now it was clouding over, and the little light that fell trough the slit-windows high in the wall got dimmer by the moment. It had only been when Éomund had married Théodwyn, Théoden King's youngest sister, that they had been equipped with crown-glass instead of the thin semi-transparent horn plates that had been used before. Like in Edoras annexes had been added to the hall that now held the quarters of the ruling family, but still the old hall was the centre of daily life.

The heavy wooden doors were closed due to the weather, and the general noise from the yard and the stables across it was muffled by them. Éomer remembered them being thrown wide open, letting in the the golden summer sun. His mother and her women had been sitting around a large table put directly in the beam of light, sorting and bundling the herbs that were to be dried under the large eaves of the hall. He had loved those summer days with the scent of the herbs mingling with the slight whiff of wood-smoke that always lingered in the hall.

Lost in happy childhood memories he had not heeded the sound of a horse galloping into the yard and being brought to an abrupt halt.

"Ceadda!"

A child's voice, shrill on the brink of panic. He snapped out of his revery.

"Ceadda! Help!"

_Gytha! _Yanking the door open, he rushed into the yard, just as the herder came running from the stables, followed by some stable-hands. _Gytha! _She stood beside Winfrid's sorrel, mud-covered and dripping wet, the lower part of her face blood-smeared.

In a split-second he was at her side, pulling her close. "Gytha, what happened? Where is Winfrid?"

She looked up as if not seeing him, her teeth cluttering from the cold and then squirmed in his arms to turn round and face Ceadda. "Ceadda, please help. It's my fault. I..." Her voice was choked with tears.

Éomer took her by the shoulders. "Gytha, what happened?" Only now he noticed that she was wearing a different cloak. Not the rich fur-lined one he had gifted her with but a threadbare one of non-descript colour. "Were you attacked?"

She shook her head, her entire body shuddering now. "No. I... at the pits... Sundergiefu spooked... and I went after her... Hraefn... she broke through the quaking bog... And..." With a wail she threw her head back and then sagged against him, burying her face in the folds of his tunic.

He noticed the tiny fragments of peat in her wet hair and felt his heart skip a beat. _Béma, she must have gone under with the horse._ But they needed more information. Taking her face in both hands, he forced the girl to focus on him. "Look at me Gytha."

She sobbed. "Sundergiefu..."

Silently Ceadda ordered a lad to walk Winfrid's horse before leading it to the stables and then turned to the girl. "What about Sundergiefu?"

"She too..." The sobs nearly choked her. "I managed to jump off, but Hraefn... Her legs got entangled with my cloak and she dragged me down... but the clasp opened. Winfrid pulled me out, but she... she..."

"Is she still alive?" Ceadda's voice was calm, despite the worry that was visible in his eyes.

Gytha nodded, her head moving as if in a cramp. "When they made me leave, she was. Both of them were. But the pit is too steep, they can't get out. Winfrid is holding Sundergiefu's head and Hrothgar is cutting birches to stuff into the hole to give them a foothold. But the pit is bottomless."

"Hrothgar?" Éomer had not realised that as Ceadda's helpmate the lad would be at Aldburg, once the gelding of the yearlings was done. And now the two warring lads were out there in the moor...But the news did not seem to alarm Ceadda further. The herder turned to the men who had assembled around them.

"Ten of you get ready. Hurry." Without any specific order being given, everyone at the stables knew what to do: Horses were being saddled, tools, coils of rope and packs of blankets strapped. One of the lads came running up with a blanket, and Éomer put it around Gytha's shoulders.

"Where exactly are they?"

"West of the Éllernbrook, near the boulders below the birch grove."

Éomer nodded grimly. He knew the spot. Every child at Aldburg knew about the disused peat pits and would avoid them. How could they go there, especially with a foal on its first outing? Only then he realised that neither Winfrid nor Gytha were well acquainted with the surroundings of Aldburg.

Hrodwyn appeared at his side and he shoved the shivering girl into her arms, shouting to one of the lads to fetch his overcoat and cloak, while he ran to fetch Firefoot. Within minutes they were ready to go, and then Éomer galloped out of Aldburg, accompanied by Ceadda and ten sturdy men.

It proved easy to spot the trail in the light dusting of snow beside the brook, and after a ten minutes ride the first birches came into sight. Crossing the brook they followed the trail into the moor, riding single file now, and soon Éomer descried some dark spots ahead in the vast snow-covered moor-land on their right. They had to slow down to go more carefully. The surface of the ground was frozen but dark brown water had gathered in the hoof-prints before them.

When they reached the site of the accident, they found both horses in a steep-sided hole full of sludgy brown water. The mare was treading water, her eyes wide with fear, while Hrothgar knelt near her neck, shoving bundles of birch-twigs down into the pit in the hope to give her a foothold. Prostrate beside him lay Winfrid, both arms around Sundergiefu's neck, thus pulling her head over his shoulder. The filly's movements were erratic, and when they dismounted and quietly went near not to frighten the animals unnecessarily, they heard Winfrid talk to her, his voice muffled and strained.

The boys had managed to get hold of Hraefn's reins and had tied them to the hilt of Winfrid's dagger which they had driven into the frozen ground near the edge of the pothole, thus keeping them from entangling the mare's legs. Ceadda knelt down and reached for the mare's head, soothing her in a low voice and patting her neck encouragingly.

The men unloaded their horses. Five of them immediately went for the grove to cut more branches, while two others set the spades they had brought to work, digging into the ground in front of the mare's head. There was not enough room for more of them to work at once and it would take them some time, but there was a chance they could dig deep enough to create a step and some kind of ditch that would give the horse a hold for her forefeet and enable her to heave herself out of the pit.

A sudden sob from Winfrid caught Éomer's attention. "She's slowing. Do something. I can't hold her any more."

Lying down beside the boy, Éomer tried to reach down into the water to get hold of one of the foal's forelegs, but in vain. His hands did not reach deeper than the chest and all he could do to support Winfrid was to grab the filly's short mane to prevent her head from sliding off the boy's shoulder.

Alarmed he saw Sundergiefu's eyes roll backwards. Her hind quarters sagged. With a curse Ceadda thrust Hraefn's reins into one of the men's hands to rush over to the other side of the pit, but Hrothgar grabbed his sleeve. Éomer could hear Ceadda and Hrothgar exchange a few hasty words, and then Ceadda ordered two men with ropes over to the foal's side of the hole.

Out of the corner of his eye, Éomer saw Hrothgar taking off his overcoat and boots, and then, holding the other ends of the ropes, the lad slid into the murky water between the horses. Éomer held his breath. The pit was narrow, and squeezing in between the two terrified horses, Hrothgar was in utter danger to get squashed or kicked, but the lad moved slowly and purposeful, despite the ice-cold water. Having reached the spot beside the filly's belly, Hrothgar drew a deep breath and mouthed two words: "Erce, help."

And then he dived. Sundergiefu suddenly flailed in panic, and letting go of her mane, Éomer clenched his arms around her lower neck to prevent her from slipping out of Winfrid's grip, nearly toppling into the water himself in the process.

Hrothgar's hands, clutching the rope-ends, were the first parts of his body that appeared out of the water on the other side of the foal. Immediately the men took the ropes from him and pulled them close, while another one grabbed Hrothgar and helped him out of the icy water. In no time the ropes were tied to the saddle horns of two horses, thus securing the foal from further sinking. In the meantime the digging went on, the men taking shifts to work as fast as possible, and bundle after bundle of birch twigs was stuffed down the pit.

"Éomer?" Ceadda's voice was strained. He was again at his mare's head, eyeing the foal worriedly. "Can you take Sundergiefu's head when they start pulling? You'll have to move with the pull."

Éomer simply nodded, and without loosening his grip on the filly's neck, he shifted her head to his shoulder, while Winfrid rolled away to the side. Slowly now the horses led by the men pulled, and as the ropes that encircled Sundergiefu's belly close to her front and hind legs dragged her out of the pit, pulling her over onto her left side, Éomer crawled through semi-frozen mud, the foal's head cradled on his shoulder.

As soon as the filly was on solid ground, lying exhausted with outstretched neck and closed eyes, blankets were thrown over her, and two men started to rub her down. Slowly Éomer got to his feet and looked around. Winfrid and Hrothgar were standing nearby, shivering in the cold wind despite the blankets that were slung around their shoulders. The men were still digging frantically, the foremost up to his waist in water by now, and still bundles of birch were stuffed into the hole. And then all of a sudden, Hraefn's fore-hooves caught hold.

"Cum, cum, maegden." Ceadda's voice was coarse with anxiety, his red hair and beard mud-splattered. The next bundles went into the pit just behind the mare's hind-legs, only to disappear without any effect under her hooves. The surface of the entire pit was now filled with small birch twigs broken off from the tight bundles, and Éomer feared that they might hinder the mare. Hraefn tread water, and then suddenly one of her hind-legs found footing. She pushed her weary body up, her rump raising halfway out of the water. The mare lunged forward, the hooves of her fore-legs digging into the deep step the men had managed to dig out by now.

"Steady, girl," Ceadda crooned, kneeling in the mud beside the pit, reins in hand. The mare groaned and tried to push on, but losing the footing of her hind leg, she sank back into the water. More bundles arrived.

"Stick them right behind her arse." Moving to the rear of the pothole, Éomer sat down on the edge and pressed the bundles against the mare's rump with both feet, trying to keep her from sliding backwards.

Another try, one hoof found ground, another one... She moved forwards, stumbling once when loosing her footing again, but hurling herself forwards, she shoved her body onto the rising ground of the freshly dug ditch. The pressure of the horse suddenly removed, Éomer nearly slid into the pit, forestalled only by a man who caught him at the shoulder.

More bundles were brought and stuffed under her hind-legs with makeshift poles, and finally she heaved herself out of the pit and started to climb the dug-out steps, Ceadda at her head waist-deep in the water, urging her on.

Éomer let go of the birch stem he had used to hold the bundles in place and walked over to where the two lads crouched beside the filly, all three of them wrapped in blankets and sheltered from the wind by the bodies of the men's horses.

One by one the tied up bundles rose to the surface in the pit now that the horse's body did not press them down any more, and he spotted something in the murky water. There, near the spot where Hraefn's hooves had found footing first was some fabric. Scrunched up and entangled with the twigs of the bundle, it formed a solid parcel: Green wool and russet fur, now covered with brown peat-fibres. He knelt and fished it out. Gytha's cloak. He closed his eyes and heaved a deep breath, his fists clutching the soiled garment._ What if the clasp had not given way? What if she had got entangled in the heavy cloth?_

Not heeding the men who were busy rubbing down the mare, he let the cloak fall beside the pit and walked up to the slope. At one spot a band of granite cropped out from under the cover of turf and heather, some parts of it having eroded to boulders of different sizes. He selected a fitting rock and carried it back to the hole. Wrapping his daughter's cloak around it and tying it to the stone with the help of some rope, his fingers stroked the ancient clasp she had sewn to the cloth. Éofor's heirloom that had been in the family for nearly 500 years. But what were all the treasures of the Mark against his child's life?

Slowly he took the wrapped stone with both hands. Green wool lined with summer squirrel...green wool that had wrapped his child for but one Yule. He felt shaken and cold to the core. The gods had spared her, had let go a precious life, so the shell that had held it was rightfully theirs. He lowered the stone to the surface of the water, his heart beating wildly. "Erce, eorthan modor..." Murmuring the sacred words he let go, and stone and cloak sank into the dark icy depths.

He rose, only now noticing the men standing around the pit, making the sign of the Mother with serious faces. The filly stood now, covered in blankets, and Ceadda was slowly walking the likewise covered mare. The wind had got stronger and the lips of the lads who huddled in the wind shadow of the horses were bluish.

Éomer suppressed a curse. They would have to walk mare and filly home and they needed the other horses to shield them from the wind, but it would be slow going and he wanted the boys to get under cover as fast as possible.

"Hrothgar, ride ahead and inform them that we're coming. Winfrid, you'll ride pillion with Hrothgar." Seeing the lad's doubtful look, he added: "That's an order. I want you to get out of this wind as fast as possible. Do we have any spare blankets?"

The men shook their heads, but two of them shed their cloaks and handed them to the boys. Éomer nodded his appreciation. He himself was soaked and muddied, as was Ceadda and the men that had dug the steps, but they certainly had had worse in their lives.

Hrothgar bowed to the king, but shot Winfrid a wary side-glance. An unreadable expression on his face, Winfrid suddenly held out his hand. "You gave yourself into Erce's judgement to save Sundergiefu, and you made it through it. How can I hold a grudge against you, if the gods spared you?"

Surprise showed in the stable lad's features, but then he grabbed Winfrid's hand and shook it fervently. Murmurs of approval arose from the men around them, and soon the two lads were mounted, cantering off towards Aldburg, while the others followed slowly, mare and filly in the protective circle of equine bodies.

**ooo**

It was still quite early in the evening when Éomer retired to his room. He did not want to deprive Elfhelm and Hrodwyn of their last night together for probably quite some time any longer than absolutely necessary. Erchirion had shared a tankard of ale with Elfhelm and him after dinner and then gone to stay with the Éored he was riding with, the same he had been training with at Edoras. The two of them had spent the previous evenings together, and there was little left to say to each other that would not pique Éomer's badly controlled discontent. Erchirion had decided to stay with the Rohirrim at the Crossings as they had agreed it would be useful and convenient to have a Gondorean lord at hand should there be any discord with the population. And Éomer knew it made sense that his friend stayed with his men from the very beginning. It all made sense, even his own staying behind, and that was what bothered him most.

And yet, all this vexation was nothing compared with the turmoil that had been launched in his heart by the incidents in the morning. They had had a rather nasty talk after the horses had been taken into the stables, and it could not be denied that the nearly disastrous accident had been entirely Gytha's fault. _His Gytha! _Despite Ceadda's orders and Winfrid's warning, she had taken the path into the moor, not realising the danger before it had been too late, for no other reason but to show off in front of the boy. Éomer gnashed his teeth in anger. _How could she be that stupid? How could she risk the horses for nothing but a fit of folly and pride? And what if the clasp had not opened?_

That one thought had surfaced in his mind again and again throughout the day, causing him to feel weak with relief for the mercy of the gods. It was a miracle that she had got out of it with nothing but a nosebleed. He was wondering if it had been his fault, if he had elevated her into a position of importance and responsibility too early, not seeing that she still was but a child. Had the praise and admiration of the past days made her big-headed and reckless? He raked his hands through his hair. It could not be helped now, what had been done had been done, but he wished for Éothain's ensuring company to discuss his misgivings. If anybody in his surroundings knew from experience about headstrong daughters it was his friend.

Sure, Gytha had been painfully aware of her guilt, and drenched in tears she had even proposed the taking back of the filly to Ceadda. It had been plain that he herder had been seriously tempted to agree, but then he had simply risen and left the room. That affair was not over yet for the girl. She was restricted from riding till a new cloak could be made for her, and she had wordlessly accepted his verdict. He was sure she would try to avoid meeting people for at least the next days, as most would not talk to her more than absolutely necessary. She clearly had fallen from grace.

Winfrid had not spoken to her either, but quietly helped her to warp the loom for a rug she had decided to weave for Ceadda. It had seemed so odd to Éomer to see the boy fixing the threads of the warp. Weaving wool was a woman's business, and though Erchirion had told him that in Gondor weaving was largely done by men, he felt far from convinced. He had to admit that they had good linen and cotton fabric in Stoningland, but their woollen cloth was no doubt inferior. Éomer shook his head. Wool was something that was alive, that answered to the hands of women, called for their touch. No wonder the Gondoreans were not able to produce decent stuff if they had men doing the job.

The fire had burnt low and he went over to the basket to put another piece of peat on the hearth, only to stop abruptly with the clod in his hand. _Peat...the disused pit..._ He felt his stomach churn. _Béma, if only little things had been different... _

As it was, the only one who had clearly profited from the dreadful incident was Hrothgar. Not only did the men praise his prowess and skill, the reason for his stay at Aldburg being regarded as cleared and forgotten, but Hrodwyn had given him a complete outfit of Elfhelm's, worn but of solid made, all in all better than anything the boy had ever had on his back. And both, praise and new outfit had increased the lad's chances with the serving wenches considerably.

Putting the peat on the fire, Éomer sat down near the hearth. _What was he to do with Gytha? _Truth be told, in his heart of hearts he thought she had been punished sufficiently by all she had gone through this day, and he was sure that anything like that would not happen again, but he could not grasp what had made her go against Ceadda's orders that bluntly. He sighed. There were always those who had to learn things the hard way.

He remembered Éowyn being a toddler. Both their mother and the housekeeper had told her repeatedly to stay away from the hearthstones because they were hot, but she would not listen. Only after having received a large blister across her tiny hand from patting the stones she would believe it: The hearthstones were hot and not to be touched. He had frowned at her foolishness then, with all the wisdom and superiority of his six years, but laughing his mother had told him that he had acted likewise when of the same age, and that most likely their father had done it, too. A clan of fire-touchers. There was no way of denying that Gytha was his daughter.

He stared into the glow of the peat-fire. And certainly the girl did not carry a light burden as far as her temper was concerned. Neither he nor her mother were known for their patience and sweet nature... Had Ethelfleda not even sent her betrothed unblessed into battle because of a dispute they had had? Perhaps they were all to experience something like this, some incident to show them their limits, and if they were strong enough to live through it they would be able to draw wisdom from it. _But what wisdom had he learned from getting burnt, if he did not even remember it?_

He wished he had her at his side to talk to, to share his ideas, to help him, finding answers to his questions. Lothíriel... his love, his wife, the woman he could open his heart to without fear of embarrassment, the one he trusted his body and soul to. He missed reading her letters, those letters he only needed to touch to hear her voice in his mind, whispering the words to him. _Béma, how could it be that he depended on her so much that he even missed the things she had sent him? _That bottle on his desk, long empty, though he had stinted himself on the liqueur, drinking but half of the tiny cup attached to it every day. But still the empty bottle held the smell of its former contents, and he often just removed the stopper to inhale the fragrance of honey and almonds. And that wonderful shirt. He regretted not having taken it with him and felt embarrassed by his notion at the same time. He had never worn it save the day it had arrived together with that mind-blasting letter, but had spread it over his pillow each night in the hope that the soft fabric she had sewn and embroidered with so much love might guide his dreams. _And what dreams he had had..._

A piece of peat crumpled and fell apart into white ashes. If he could but go to Gondor, he would find a way to meet her...And staring into the hearth-fire he let his mind wander, imagining how they would meet at the Crossings of Poros on the evening of battle, how she would welcome him, wrapping him in her love and care..._ Her hair like midnight, her fingers burning trails across his body … She would bless him, and Béma, he was willing to die for just that one night._

* * *

><p><strong>Annotations:<strong>

**maegden:** (Rohirric/Old English) girl

**Peat/peat digging:** Peat was -and still is in some countries- used as fuel, especially in areas that lack wood. That was the reason why I imagined peat to be the ordinary fuel in Rohan, while the burning of wood was more or less restricted to the halls of the king and the nobles in general as a sign of prestige.

Peat has different qualities, the best being the deep layers, called "Schwarztorf" (black peat) in German. Pits to get this kind of peat could be up to six meters deep with steep vertical banks. Filled with (rain)water, disused pits can become deadly traps, because grass etc. growing on the banks builds mats of floating plants that can be mistaken for solid ground, especially when frozen over.


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

So at last they were gone. Gone without him under the command of Elfhelm, Marshal of the Eastfold. Éomer rotated his shoulders. He felt awkward, useless, redundant. He was king, leader of his people, a skilled warrior – and yet left behind to wait for the return of the Éoreds like an invalid or a woman. He froze... _A skilled warrior left behind like a woman...Béma, he had never understood how Éowyn must have felt, and now..._

Duty! The word tasted bitter and shallow. In vain he tried to convince himself that the Éoreds did not ride into battle and that securing the Crossings would be boring. The mere thought of riding out with the host thrilled him. The neighing of the horses, the thunder of the hooves, the voices of the Riders, rising in song into the crisp air, the tips of their spears reflecting the pale winter sun... Frustrated he kicked a stone that happened to lie in his way. His foul mood was no way improved when he heard someone chuckle nearby.

Looking up, he beheld Ceadda. The herder was coming from the stables, his face in a wide grin. So obviously Hraefn and her foal were alright, at least one thing Éomer was ready to be happy about. And it was convenient to meet Ceadda alone, as thus he could fulfil his promise to Frithuswith and enquire about Lynet. Though there did not seem to be much unclear. The herder had mellowed, somehow, the lines in his weather-beaten face looked less sharp, and though he cursed and yelled as vividly as ever, there was a readiness to mirth he had lacked the past years.

"Has Hraefn recovered?" Asking after a horse always was a fitting way to open a conversation with an Eorling in general and with a herder in particular. "Gytha was worried yesterday that her milk might have lessened." To say that the girl had been worried was quite an understatement. She had been pale with worry and guilt when she had come from the stables.

Ceadda shrugged. "I only told her that such a thing can happen to a mare that went through stress, but she seemed to take it for granted. I did not bother to correct her. She knew she had done wrong and I thought she should feel it. Hraefn is fine and so is the filly. I can't say how happy I am about that."

"And what about your wife? Keeps you likewise happy I hope."

The herder guffawed. "Did the dragon tell you to poke your nose in?" Éomer grinned affirmatively. "Why then don't you come with me, Éomer Cyning? I'm on my way home for breakfast."

"Now?" Éomer was puzzled.

"I slept in the stables to make sure that everything was alright with the mare," Ceadda explained.

"You could have sent to the kitchen..."

Ceadda shook his head. "I know, and believe me, just a short time ago I gladly would have done so. But now..." Ceadda's grin nearly split his face. "I like going home, Éomer Cyning, because once again it has become home. You can tell that to your querulous lead mare at Meduseld."

Their talk turning back to Hraefn and her foal and then to horses in general, the two men walked down the narrow street towards the gate when suddenly they were hailed from one of the sideways. A boy of five or six years came running up to Ceadda, slowly followed by Mildburh. Ceadda's mother was carrying a net holding a large and obviously heavy stoneware pot, but despite the burden her limp seemed to have lessened.

"We sold all the cheese and I helped Ealder Modor," the little boy beamed.

"Westu Éomer Cyning hál." Mildburh had reached them by now, and Ceadda took the bulky pot from her, looking plainly surprised.

"Already sold out? Was there that little to sell?"

Mildburh smiled quietly. "The pot was full, Ceadda, but I could have sold the double amount. She has a hand for cream-cheese, that wife of yours, and to add some horseradish was a splendid idea." Her smile deepening, she turned to Éomer. "The cook of the Hall ordered the whole next batch, and they'll send a boy down to fetch it, so I won't have to carry it."

"So you are satisfied with your son's choice?" Éomer asked with a side-glance at Ceadda.

Smiling she nodded, but the herder just shrugged. "There are things she's not up to. Like selling the cheese for example. She's just too kind-hearted and any git would cheat her without her even noticing it, but all in all I would call her a boon."

Mildburh's smile turned into a grin at her son's odd praise of his wife, but she said nothing. It was the boy, the herder's late oath-brother's son, who spoke up, pointing at his brown felt-cap that sat a bit bulky on his barley-coloured head. "She made this for me. It's nice, isn't it?"

Showing the expected admiration, Éomer nodded.

"And she got some jointment for Ealder Modor's knees."

"Some what?" Éomer was not sure if he had heard correctly.

"Jointment," the little boy repeated.

"Ointment, Eádhun," Ceadda corrected.

The boy snorted. "The healer said it's for creaking joints, so it's jointment. And Lynet says I'm right."

Éomer found it hard to stifle his laughter. He did not want to undermine the herder's parental authority, but Ceadda just shrugged with a grin and let things be. They had passed through the gate by now and were walking along the dirt-lane that led up to a cluster of three smallish houses and a couple of sheds not far from the gate. Just when they were to turn around the corner of one of the sheds into the small yard in front of Ceadda's house, they could hear an angry shout.

"Sod off, you twit and leave me alone." Standing in front of the house, Lynet was holding a besom with both hands, mustering the middle-aged man in front of her with a scowl. Éomer recognised Sideman, notorious all over Aldburg for his quarrelsome nature and his love of drink. Immediately he and Ceadda made to intervene, but Mildburh stopped them, resolutely grabbing their garment.

"Wait," she whispered in her calm way. "Give her a try to deal with it herself. She has to learn. You can step in any time if she doesn't manage."

Nodding reluctantly, Ceadda shoved the stoneware pot back into her hands, never taking his eyes off the scene before them. There were two elderly women at the door of one of the other houses, their faces clearly expressing their disapproval of Sideman, but no one had yet noticed the newcomers at the corner of the shed.

The man laughed, swaying slightly. "Haughty we are, eh? Just because you married that plonker of a herder doesn't mean you are respectable now. Why, who did you get your brat from? Not that gelding of a husband of yours."

Lynet raised the besom. "Shut up, you! Ceadda made the blood-sign over Leofa and so she is his."

Sideman sneered. "Yes, that's the way he gets his children. And then he'll cast you out, like he did with Eadhild after taking her son."

Out of the corner of his eye Éomer saw Mildburh pulling little Eádhun into a close hug.

"You bloody liar!" The older of the two women in front of the house, a toothless crone well into her eighties, spat on the ground. "Don't believe him, Lynet. Eadhild left him for another man, and she was satisfied to get rid of the boy."

"And well she did to leave him. Hey _Lynet!" _Drawing her name out in an absurd way, Sideman smirked. "You know he can't give you any more children, don't you?"

Uncertainty clearly visible on her face, Lynet let the besom sink. Sideman jeered. "He didn't tell you, eh _Lynet_? He's no real man – so what do you want with him? Fuck with a gelding?" He made one more step towards Lynet. "Come on, _Lynet_. I'll give you the real thing." With a fast movement no one had expected in his state of drunkenness, he grabbed the broomstick and caught by surprise, Lynet let go. Laughing nastily, he threw the besom aside, when suddenly Lynet rushed at him, pushing him forcefully with both hands, thus causing him to stager backwards. Ceadda who had already taken a step forward stopped.

"You!" Her fists clenched, her face red with fury, Lynet went after Sideman. "He did tell me. He's no liar. But you are."

The old women jeered, egging her on, and Lynet put her hands on her hips. "You want to fuck me? Pha! You can make babes? Pha! You are ugly and dirty and stupid and you stink. Who wants your babes? And I bet your cock is as ugly as your face."

A grin flitted over Ceadda's haggard face, and motioning to Éomer to stand back, the herder proceeded into the yard, signalling to the old women to stay quiet.

"You bloody stupid cunt!" Growling Sideman advanced on Lynet, but he did not manage more than one step before Ceadda caught him from behind. Grabbing the man by both ears, the herder kicked him in the hollow of the knee, sending him down into the mud of the yard, howling as his ears were twisted mercilessly in Ceadda's vice-like grip. After a look of happy surprise at Ceadda, Lynet rushed over to Mildburh, and took the net with the heavy pot from the elder woman's shoulder.

"You behave like a dog, you'll get treated like a dog, Sideman. Be gone, and leave my wife alone, for I'll chop these ears off should I ever catch you again." With a last jerk at the man's ears, Ceadda let go and kicked him in the back, sending him headlong into the mud.

The pot in her arms, Lynet made to carry it over to the house, but Ceadda intercepted her and pulled her close. Smiling at Mildburh and the boy, Éomer kept his distance to give the couple some privacy, as far as that could be had in the middle of the yard. Sideman had managed to get up in the meantime, and swaying he turned as if to leave the yard, but passing the couple, he all of a sudden pulled his knife.

"Beware!" Yelling, Éomer spurted forwards. Ceadda reacted at once, pushing Lynet out of Sideman's range, but the ruffian's blade stabbed his back, sliding off the leather of his heavily patched jerkin and nicking his upper arm. With a curse Ceadda swivelled round, just as Éomer reached them. But even without him intervening, Sideman never got a chance for a second stab. Lifting the stoneware pot with both hands, Lynet brought the heavy vessel down on his neck, just below his skull and Sideman fell like a stone,

"That murdering scoundrel." Éomer turned the prone body with the tip of his boot. "Fetch me some rope, Lynet and then run to the gate and get the guards. He'll hang for that and his carcass shall be burnt. For the likes of him there is no room on the soil of the Mark."

Lynet nodded, but made no attempt to leave, staring with worried eyes at Ceadda's bleeding arm.

The herder grinned at her and stroked her cheek with his uninjured hand. "Go woman, Lynet I mean, it's just a scratch."

She frowned but went into the house, taking net and pot with her. Mildburh turned to her son. "Scratch or no scratch, I'll have a look at it later. I don't think that pig kept his knife clean." Despite her usual calm, her face showed a determined expression, and when Lynet came back, handing Éomer a length of rope, she resolutely took it out of his hands. "Give that to me, Éomer Cyning, I know how to truss a capon."

As she had been told, Lynet left to go to the gate. At the corner of the shed she looked back, an uncertain expression on her face. Shaking his head, Ceadda motioned to the boy. "Go with her, Eádhun, and tell the guards Éomer King calls them." As the boy shot off to accompany Lynet, the herder turned to Éomer with an apologetic shrug. "There are things she's not up to, I told you."

"Well, there are other things she certainly is up to." Straightening, Mildburh gave them a lopsided grin, handing Éomer the rope back. "There's no need to bind him any more, and none to hang him either." Grabbing Sideman by the shoulder, she pulled his body up. The head lolled back in an awkward angle, and Ceadda gave a low whistle.

"Béma's balls, that wife of mine broke his neck with the cheese-pot."

"Saved the bastard hanging," Éomer grinned at the herder. "You had better treat her well, Ceadda. If she knows to make such use of a pot, in your stead I would be afraid of seeing her wield a frying pan."

**ooo**

It took no longer than the early afternoon for the first song about Ceadda's fierce wife to circulate in the stables and the barracks. Gytha's eyes widened when she heard it, while attending to Sundergiefu and Hraefn in her father's company. "Éomer Faeder, is it true she killed the man who attacked Ceadda?"

Éomer nodded. "It is. I was present. Sideman stabbed Ceadda, and Lynet knocked him down with a large stoneware pot."

Gytha frowned. "But why do these dolts make fun of Ceadda then, as if he hid behind her skirts?"

"A husband has to defend his wife, Gytha, not the other way round."

"Bollocks." The word was out before she realised what she had said. Covering her mouth with one hand, Gytha peeked at her father.

Shaking his head, Éomer turned towards the fodder-chest. "You had better try and get your speech under control, Daughter. You may still be young, but one day you'll be a lady and people will pay attention to what you say, and there will be those who will look for a reason to criticise you." He remembered having said nearly the same to Éowyn when she had been about Gytha's age, and he, mere four years older, had left her to start his training in Elfhelm's Éored. Out of the corner of his eye he watched his daughter's scowling face. _Béma, let her not be forced to control her emotions like Éowyn had to! _Handing her an apple for the mare, he tried to make light of the situation. "Perhaps they just envy Ceadda, for he is so well protected." But Gytha was not fooled that easily.

"Perhaps. But it doesn't make sense to me. If a man defends his wife, they praise him, and if a woman defends her husband..." She stopped, her frown deepening, as if there was something she had realised just now. "Well, that's strange. They don't make fun of her, but of Ceadda." She scrunched her nose. "Actually they praise her somehow, though the song is comical, but they take the mickey out of Ceadda."

Éomer sighed. "Gytha, if a man marries a woman, he swears to protect his wife and his children..."

"I know." Impatiently she kicked the fodder-chest. "But I would never stay away from defending someone I love, no matter what the people think about it."

"No, you certainly would not." He could not help a smile. "And you just wait till March, Dohtor. I promise you, you'll meet someone who will very much agree with you."

She gave him a critical look, and as the meaning of his allusion sank in, a slow grin crept into her face. "You think we'll get on?"

"I'm sure of it, Gytha."

Feeding the apple to the mare, the girl suddenly raised her head. "Does Princess Lothíriel really collect swearwords, or was Prince Erchirion just having me on?"

Éomer sighed. "She really "collects"swearwords, Dear, but I would very much appreciate if you would refrain from sending her a list with all the verbal treasures you learned in the stables."

Gytha chuckled at his prim phrasing. "Ceadda's amazing at it, but we have a shepherd in the Wold who I bet can out-swear him." Cleaning her slobber-covered hands on the bottom of her breeches, she thoughtfully cocked her head. "I never thought of writing a list... I mean, Ealder Modor made me write to her, to thank her for the necklace, but that was really dull work... She writes a lot to you, doesn't she?"

"She does, Gytha." _But what would he give to have her here and no writing necessary._ He suppressed the urge to likewise kick the fodder-chest.

Leaving the stables, they crossed the yard, and Éomer noticed that the girl avoided eye-contact with any of the people. He suppressed a sigh. She had to go through this, pay the price for what she had done, but he wished he could help her. Upon entering the hall she visibly relaxed again, picking up their conversation where they had left it.

"I think, getting letters might be quite nice, but to write them..." Gytha pulled a face. Slumping down at one of the tables, she propped her her head in both hands. "I think I should write a letter to Winfrid."

He was taken aback by the volatility of her thoughts. "To Winfrid?"

"Yeah..." She drew the word, blushing vividly. "I... I mean he would like to hear about Lynet and Ceadda, wouldn't he?" Avoiding Éomer's gaze, she followed the grain of the table board with her fingers. "I don't understand why I did it."

"Did what?" Éomer was not sure if he really was getting the direction of her comment.

"Force Winfrid to come with me along the Éllernbrook." She heaved a deep breath. "He told me he didn't want to, and I shouldn't go. But I knew he would not stay behind if I went. I knew I should not go. I..." She swallowed. "I wanted to feel superior. But I don't understand why. I like him, and I knew that I hurt him, but I just could not stop myself. And then..."

Éomer stared at his daughter, not knowing what to say, when she suddenly raised her head. "Perhaps it bothered me that he talked so much about the woods he was going to see. Perhaps I was jealous that he could do things I couldn't... I don't know. " Blushing, she added: "Mother said, I should talk to someone I trusted as soon as possible if I had done something wrong lest the demons get hold of me, but I don't understand what she meant. Do you?"

Slowly he nodded. _Poor Ethelfleda certainly knew about the demons of guilt. _Aloud he said: "Yes, Gytha Dohtor, I know. We all make mistakes, because we are impatient, or proud, or stupid, but if we realise that we have made a mistake, a severe one that leaves us guilty, we have to talk to someone we trust about it, lest our guilt possesses us and drives us insane."

"Have you ever made such a mistake? I mean, a mistake that caused others to die?"

Her eyes were dark like the deep tarns in the mountains as she looked at him enquiringly. He sighed. "Yes, Gytha, I have. During the battle on the Pelennor, the great field before Mundburg, I led the éoredhéap very ruthlessly and but for the arrival of the forces of the king of Gondor, the enemies would have closed in at us..."

Gytha shook her head. "No, that's not what I mean. That's in a battle. In battles warriors can die. They know beforehand."

"They know, Gytha. But it is the duty of a leader to lead his men wisely and not to hazard their lives. That's how a good leader proves his superiority."

She thoughtfully sucked in her lower lip. "Yes, you're right. So I was twofold wrong in riding towards the moor." Her botom lip started to tremble. "I think I could not live any more if Sundergiefu or Hraefn had died... or Hrothgar."

Éomer reached out and took her hands in his. "Sometimes to go on living is the harder task, Gytha, and I thank the gods that they spared you that experience. But perhaps you are right, and you should write a letter to Winfrid. You can send it to Éowyn, and she will give it to him when he comes to Emyn Arnen."

With a wobbly smile she nodded. "I would like to, but... I think I'll need your help, Faeder, I'm really lousy at writing."

**ooo**

Éomer was putting away the writing utensils and his signet after Gytha had left with a face glowing with pride, cradling the sealed role of parchment she had filled with rather scrawly letters, when one of the servants announced an errand rider from Gondor. Expecting news about the campaign, Éomer received the letter, but one look at the paper in his hand revealed the sender: _Lothíriel!_

Dismissing the the courier, Éomer went over to the fire to read. So few days after Yule it could no way be an answer to his own letter. Breaking the seal, he thought of the delicate signet he had had made for her, and which was waiting for her in the drawer of his desk at Meduseld: A sheaf of six ears of barley, flanked by two flowers, etched into silver. _Lothíriel, his pirate, his life. _Smiling, he smoothed the paper and started to read, but after little more than a few words, his smile turned into a frown.

_Dear Éomer,_

_I am afraid this letter will be but a short one and the tidings are rather grim. While I am writing to you, Elphir is in council, penning a missive to Father and King Elessar and the courier for Minas Tirith is to leave as soon as possible._

_We finally received news about Amrothos, but they are far from easing our worries. A message from Radhruin reached us today from Tol Falas, informing us about their latest campaign against the corsairs. Radhruin writes that their ships were drifted apart in a heavy storm south of Tol Falas. He had to call at port on Tol Falas because the helm of his ship was damaged, but he is determined to start the search for Amrothos' ship as soon as the repair will be finished._

_As far as I understand from his letter, Amrothos had the crazy idea to set a trap for the corsairs, sailing one of those bulky and rather slow merchant ships under the colours of Gondor with Pelargir as home port, but carrying a crew of armed mercenaries instead of any cargo. It seems that the corsairs have set up a base at the estuary of the Harnen, we just do not know on which bank of the river, on Harandor's or Umbar's, a problem King Elessar has his spies working at, but that imbecile brother of mine, always ardent for some glory in a naval action and dreaming of himself as the Admiral of Gondor, did not want to wait. _

_Obviously Radhruin was not fully convinced of my brother's plan, though he does not explicitly say so. But it seems that Amrothos only informed him the moment he was ready to set sail, leaving Radhruin with the alternative to join him, watching his back from a certain distance, or to stay at harbour and feel torn and responsible should anything go amiss with the hazardous action. As it is, we have to be thankful that he accompanied Amrothos, because otherwise there would be no one who knows what happened._

_Nobody was informed, neither Elphir nor Father and the king. I really do not understand how Amrothos thought to get away with that madness. And as Radhruin points out to Elphir that also is the sticking point in the entire situation, for it goes without saying that the Lords of the coastal area of Harondor were not informed about Amrothos' action either. _

_So should Amrothos ship have suffered any damage, it will be near to impossible to call at port anywhere in Harondor without being taken for corsairs themselves, as certainly everyone would suspect they captured the vessel to replace those ships seized by King Elessar during the war. And even if someone recognizes Amrothos as Prince Imrahil's son, what would they make of his sailing a ship from Pelargir? Would they not think there had been some discord between the prince and his youngest son and therefore said son went for some booty on his own account? Or even worse, think it to be a secret action against Harondor sanctioned by the king? _

_Perhaps I am too pessimistic about the whole affair, but what am I to expect? We do not know if he made it through the storm, especially not with the kind of vessel he is sailing, and if he did, the outcome is more than disputable and I certainly fear the king's reaction. How can that idiot Amrothos only see himself and risk the fragile status quo in Harondor! King Elessar will be fuming. Anyway Elphir is, while Mother tries to defend Amrothos, pleading herself guilty to have passed the addiction to the uncanny mixture of sea, speed and risk on to her son._

_What a nonsense! We all love that thrill, and Father not the least, but does that make us forget our duty to our family and our country as soon as some glory is to be gained? That brother of mine is nothing but a spoiled child, and unfortunately he is in the position to hazard the lives of men and the welfare of a kingdom on the chessboard of his vanity._

_And yet I love him and hope, nay pray, he will come back whole and hale, if only to kick him to my heart's content for his stupidity. I can even understand why the idea of chasing corsairs on his own account intrigued him so much, and I admit that his plan is enticing, but I will never forgive him for not considering the entire political situation. Do I ask too much to expect a man in a leading position to use his brain before he starts any action that might affect his people? _

_Mother wants to leave as soon as possible, though probably we will not go up to Minas Tirith but stay in Pelargir, because like that Mother would be closer to Father, once the campaign started, and we would get any possible information both about him and Amrothos as fast as possible. Radhruin has offered his hospitality, and Mother seems to be very relieved, as that will mean that we will be well provided for during our stay in Pelargir and can travel light and fast with the first opportunity._

_I just do not know what I fear most: to hear that Amrothos' ship foundered and he is lost or to have to witness that my brother causes all the negotiations go to naught, risking war at a moment we can so ill afford it. I just hope that Radhruin finds him before he wreaks havoc in earnest._

_I wish I could talk with Father about all this, but then there might be a fair chance that we will meet him before he moves into Harondor. I hate having to wait for an uncertain outcome and not being able to do anything myself, but who knows what kind of diplomatic skills and tricks will be necessary even if Amrothos is found. And I just do not want to imagine what Amrothos' recklessness and idiotic male pride might mean for the two of us if it really should lead to war._

_I am sorry for the ill news and I wish I did not have to write this letter. Think of me, Éomer, as I think of you, for there seems to be nothing in my world any more that is not endangered to get unhinged. Lothíriel_


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

Putting one of the brazen horses that served as a paperweight on the refractory edge of the map before them, Eáldread nodded. "There might be no need to be alarmed yet, and we certainly should wait for King Elessar's message, but it would not be amiss to have some more Éoreds in readiness."

Éomer grunted. "That might be well for now, but we can ill afford too many men away when the spring planting is due." He found it hard to control his temper, and not only because of the political difficulties Amrothos' actions might cause. In his mind he was going through Lothíriel's letter again and again, like he had done in the sleepless misery of the previous night, his heart excoriated by the despair that had spoken out of the last sentence of her letter.

"Are there any reliable news how far preparations in Khand have proceeded?" The old counsellor's forefinger followed the course of the Harnen.

Éomer shrugged. "Nothing that I have not told you already. They try to get allies in Harad as that would give them free access to Gondor's weak flank in Harondor." And at the moment it would be Imrahil and the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth securing that flank while that imbecile son of his was busy knocking the plans of the entire kingdom on the head.

The counsellor thoughtfully stroked his beard. "So at the moment there does not seem to be any acute danger for Gondor..."

"But perhaps for Harondor. And if Aragorn wants to bind the lords of Harondor closer to Gondor he will have to protect them." Éomer felt how his impatience at Eáldread's foot-dragging was reaching high tide.

"True, but then it would make sense that the young prince tried to find out if said lords were playing fair or secretly supporting the corsairs." Eáldread shook his head. "I know too little about seafaring, Éomer Cyning, to be of great use as a counsellor in this case. I wish we had Prince Erchirion here to consult with."

"I dare say he will be of grater use at the Poros." Rising from his desk, Éomer started to pace his study. The movement eased his tension and there was a fair chance that it would keep him from strangling his chief-counsellor. "Amrothos no doubt is an excellent sea-captain and I'm sure his action in itself is valiant, but it is reckless and hazardous in the situation Gondor is in. He should have asked the king's permission." He stopped, staring at the already darkening window. He had not mentioned Radhruin to his counsellor, said nothing about the praise and confidence Lothíriel had bestowed on the man. A praise rankling the more as he was certain that the Gondorean doubtlessly had all the abilities she was referring to in such laudatory words. And now Lothíriel would stay in Radhruin's house at Pelargir. Perhaps she was even there as he himself was trying to work out what Amrothos' escapade could mean for the Mark. _Amrothos! _Éomer suppressed the urge to kick something. _He should have shoved that idiot into the fodder-chest that evening in Dol Amroth and nailed it down._

"I would say that the lords of the Mark need not be informed, as the situation for the Mark has not changed," Éothain, who had been listening silently, chimed in. "Imrahil's youngest went on a naval action. That we had already known, and that's what the lords know. No need to bandy about that he is missing. Who knows, perhaps he has turned up again in the meantime. And we have the Éoreds in readiness anyway."

Eáldread nodded. "If further diplomatic difficulties are to be expected it would be better if things were not talked about outside this room before we know more. I have no doubt that King Elessar will inform you as fast as possible."

Éomer was pondering how long it would take any information to get from wherever that Radhruin was at the moment to Minas Tirith first of all, when after her characteristic rap at the door, Frithuswith entered and put a tray with three tankards and a jug of ale on the desk.

"Very well then." Gathering the map and stowing it away, Éomer sat down at his desk again and reached for the tankard Frithuswith had poured for him. "Has anything important happened during my absence?"

Gingerly taking his own tankard, the old counsellor cleared his throat. "Well, Erkenbrand sent a message, informing about an abortive attempt of a raid by a handful of Dunlendings in Sigward's fief."

"A raid by Dunlendings?" Éomer put down his tankard. An assault in the west while they were gathering their forces to help Gondor in the south._ Béma, why had that dim-witted counsellor not told him about that first of all? _Obviously Eáldread was getting senile.

Carefully the counsellor put down his own tankard, pointedly avoiding Éomer's gaze. "Yes, but that has already been dealt with."

Pulling himself together in a attempt to control his temper, Éomer slowly rose. "Lord Eáldread, would you mind to report in more detail?" His voice was low, but the cutting edge in it could not be missed.

With a sigh, that showed which reaction he expected, the old counsellor complied. "Six youths from Dunland crossed the Isen in one of those small hide boats they have and tried to raid the béowbur at Landbúnes."

"What?" Where hot fury had filled him before, Éomer now felt as if an icy fist twisted his stomach. _The béowbur! Lothíriel's béowbur... defiled by those orc-cronies. _He stared at the counsellor in disbelief.

Eáldread conciliatory raised his hands. "There is no need to become upset, Éomer Cyning. Sigward kept the granary guarded though Landbúnes is deserted now, and the raiders were killed as soon as they tried to enter it."

At least that was some comfort. _But how could that swine dare...? _Clenching his fists, he bent his will to what was necessary: Information, to be able to act. "When did it happen?"

Éothain and Frithuswith had retreated towards the fireplace, and their worried glances increased Éomer's unease.

"During Yule night. They must have thought that everybody would be at the feast."

"And when did you get the message?" Éomer fought to keep his voice even, as his revived fury soared, causing his blood to pound hot behind his eyes. _The night of the solstice... Lothíriel's béowbur... _honey-coloured wood, sheltering the future of the Mark...the carvings_... the ears of barley... his dream... his desperate need to reach the béowbur... her alluring laughter... her tempting body and sweet seduction..._as_saulted by raiders, and he had dreamt instead to act._

Eáldread gave a slight cough. "One day after you left with the Eoreds, Éomer Cyning."

_Three days ago! _Grinding his teeth, Éomer glared at the old man. "And why was I not informed immediately?"

Eáldread looked uneasy. "But Sigward had already dealt with the problem. There have always been minor raids and thefts of food and animals. And Erkenbrand is adept at dealing with the Hillmen..."

"Oh, he certainly is." Éomer's voice oozed with sarcasm. "And that's why he pardoned them and sent them back home after the battle at Helm's Deep to recuperate and start raiding again." With a thud his fist came down on the desktop. "But this time things are different, Lord Eáldread. The Dunlendings took an oath not to cross the Isen again. On pain of death."

"Those who did were killed by Sigward's men." Certainly Eáldread had a point there, but Éomer was noway giving in so easily. _This was no simple attempt to steal grain, this was..._ He clenched his fist, realising how deep the assault hurt him. Not only in his dreams the granaries had become a symbol of the future queen of the Mark, nay, of the Mark's future itself. He felt tied to it, remembering the touch of the wood, the shape of the carvings under his hands... It was a husband's duty to protect his wife... He was failing her. Not only that he was not at her side in Gondor to console her... not only that he did not have the means and knowledge to search for her brother, no, worse of all, he had suffered an assault on what represented her in his own realm. _He should have acted earlier, wiped out that Dunland vermin one and all!_

"And you expect me to wait till the next, stronger group tries?" His lips curled in disdain, Éomer checked out his counsellor. It was Éothain who came to the old man's aid.

"There is only one small group left. The others have moved north."

Swivelling round, Éomer glared at his friend. "And what if the others have come back? What if this raid is just an attempt to find out if we are vigilant?"

Pacing a hand over his forehead, Éothain grimaced. "Éomer, the raiders were youths, inexperienced boys. Who tells you their elders even knew?"

Éomer could not help the words making sense to him, especially with regards to Amrothos' behaviour. He desperately wanted to cut that line of thought. "Who tells you I care?" The snarl hid his own agitation, but Éothain did not let up.

"Éomer, they were not able to do any harm..."

"Do you expect me to sit and wait until they have the strength again to do so? If you don't want your roof to be set ablaze, you have to stomp out the brand in the arsonists' hands. And I will make sure that scum will never again be able to raise a hand against the Mark." _And against what was his... what she gave willingly... her promise... the ears of barley... symbols carved into his heart..._He felt his muscles cramp with the enforced inaction and quiet.

"You are showing Éomund's temper." Frithuswith's voice was low but Éomer did not miss the reproachful tone. Pointedly he ignored her and kept addressing Éothain. He would not sit idly and wait this time.

"Éothain, get the Éored of my household ready. We ride within the hour."

"An entire Éored?" Eáldread's voice cracked. "Do you want to offend Erkenbrand?"

"I don't care who will feel offended!" The old counsellor blanched at Éomer's angry yell. "Those orcs assaulted a béowbur of the future queen of the Mark, not just any old granary! They violated a symbol of the union of Dol Amroth and the Mark, of the future of Eorl's house!"

"They did no harm." Éothain's persistence was driving him mad. No harm! How could he not see the symbolic meaning of the attack?

"And they will never again get the chance to do so." Éomer spit the words, already reaching for his gambeson.

This time it was Frithuswith to intervene. "Sigward has skilled scouts. They said that there are not more than twenty Dunlendings on the other bank of the Isen."

_Had she not before told him to keep the Dunland scum quiet by feeding them? _He shot her a scornful glance. "And when I'm through with them, there'll be none at all."

"Éomer..." Rising his hands, Éothain tried to intervene. Éomer's anger peaked and he turned his back to his childhood-friend, his bearing a signal of stubborn pride, his features a grimace of disdain.

"You got your orders, Captain. If your sympathy with the Hillmen runs that deep, you are welcome to stay in Edoras."

His face an unreadable mask, Éothain bowed his head and made for the door.

Éomer turned to the counsellor. "Bring me Erkenbrand's message, and send my squire to help me don the mail." Bowing, the old man left, and Éomer turned towards Frithuswith, who still stood silently beside the hearth. "Ready the cups, Frithuswith. You heard what I said."

Squaring her shoulders, the old housekeeper looked at him, shaking her head. "No, Éomer Cyning. The cup is served when the Riders leave for battle, not for butchering."

Éomer closed his eyes. _Fury... frenzied blaze that surged through his veins.._. He heaved a deep breath, barely managing to control his wrath. "I'll see you on the terrace of the hall. Go now."

**ooo**

The Éored was already mounted when Éomer stepped out onto the terrace, but he could not make out Éothain at his usual place beside the standard bearer. Carefully schooling his facial expression, he tried to swallow his disappointment. He slowly turned to Frithuswith, motioning to her with a jerk of his head to follow him down to the Riders for the stirrup cup.

He mounted, and Frithuswith reached up the cup to him. He suppressed the grim smile that wanted to burst forth. _That much for refusing his orders!_ He raised the cup to his lips and froze as the biting stench assaulted his nostrils. _Vinegar! She was serving him vinegar in front of his entire Éored! _

Glaring down at her, he met her gaze: Frithuswith, keeper of Meduseld, her eyes blue-grey like a storm-clouded sky, hard and unforgiving like tempered steel. If he refused the cup now, there would arise questions, and most probably he would leave with an Éored behind him that was urgently doubting his right and ability to lead. His jaw set, he emptied the cup in one draught. _At least she __had had the decency to water the vinegar. _

Women of the royal household now handed cups to the Riders, obviously filled with the accustomed mead. Bending in the saddle as if to hand the cup back to her, he brought his face near to her ear. "You will have to answer for that, Frithuswith, once I'm back." His voice was coarse with barely controlled wrath, and Firefoot, feeling his master's mood, started to fidget and sidestep, but Frithuswith did not back off. On the contrary she leaned closer, whispering under her breath. "Beware, Éomer Cyning, for you ride against the grimmest foe you will ever have to face: Yourself."

**ooo**

They arrived at Beaccotlif late in the evening of the next day after a cold sleepless night on the plains and a short stop at Céapham to rest the horses and let the riders have some warm food. It had been there in their usual quarters at the inn that Éomer had spotted Éothain amongst the Riders, but he had made no attempt to address his childhood-friend, and Éothain himself had stayed out of his way. Éomer had talked little to anyone during their ride, restricting his contact to his men to inevitable answers and orders. His blazing ire had calmed on the way to a painful smouldering that seemed to devour him from within. He knew that his feelings rather than his thoughts had made him act, for riding mile after mile over the snow-covered plains had brought him to his senses and made him realise. And yet he found it impossible to suppress those feelings.

Sure, he could tell himself that he was not ready to take any risk for the Westfold, and certainly most of his Riders would buy that explanation. But he was no fool to believe that to be the true reason for the feeling that had seized him. It had been during the last hours, when fatigue had slowly laid its leaden hand on Riders and horses that he had realized what was gnawing at his heart and mind: Fear.

Not the fear to face an enemy invincible in battle nor his own death, but the fear to do the wrong thing, to disappoint the trust and expectations his people had put into him. This feeling had always been there, even in his days as Marshal of the Eastfold, but now it was underlined with another fear, one that he felt for the first time, one that had festered inside him since the evening at Aldburg when he had first read Lothíriel's last letter. Things were slipping out of his hands, incidents he could not control were determining his fate. And more than death and the united forces of Harad and Khand he feared to be forced into inaction, to stand by while others did what needed to be done. To be done for the woman he loved and in his heart had vowed to protect. And now he was failing her, failing her not only in Gondor but in his own realm, letting greedy desecrators touch what she had put trustingly into his care. The only thing he could try was to set things right in the west, while his hands were bound as far as incidents in the south were concerned.

He had cursed Amrothos more than once under his breath during the last night. That proud and reckless idiot, more a pirate than a lord of Gondor, burning with anticipation for action and glory. And yet he had to admit he knew that feeling. Had he not felt alike when the Éoreds had left without him? And he knew Lothíriel's love for her adventurous brother, the love and devotion of pirate-siblings. True, she had been furious at Amrothos' action, but had she not also signalled that she understood her brother's notion? Had not even Eáldread seen some sense in them? What would come of that?

The longer he pondered the more certain he felt that his own dreams and expectations were coming to naught, no matter how the tide of events would turn. If Amrothos was lost there would be no chance of a marriage in March, given Gondorean traditions of mourning. And anyway: How could he expect Lothíriel to rejoice with her thoughts bent to a lost brother?... One more year of waiting... And surely that would influence his standing in the Mark. And if Amrothos had been rescued by someone from Harondor and been taken for a pirate and hanged? How would Imrahil react? How Aragorn? Would Imrahil keep quiet for stability's sake or would he not rather seek revenge? And what would they expect of him as King of the Mark? Would it drive a wedge between friends and allies? And what if Radhruin found Amrothos, whatever had happened to him? What if he rescued him, brought him back into the arms of mother and sister waiting at Pelargir? In Radhruin's house. Éomer's stomach cramped. All that could be done was done by that Gondorean. And how she had praised Radhruin's potential, his deliberateness, skill and devotion. And here he was on the wintry plains of the Mark, his heart as cold as the ground below his horse's hooves, his mind bent on punishing those who dared to defile his dream.

Erkenbrand awaited him in front of the headman's house, jovial and self-assured as always. Éomer wondered who had sent the messenger ahead to Céapham and the Hornburg, and what other information besides the coming of the king and his Éored had been forwarded. The Westfolder's face did not give away anything. But despite their speed he must have had adequate time for preparation, for as soon as Éomer had dismounted and was about to enter the headman's house, horses and Riders were led up to different houses and barns to be sheltered for the night.

If he was surprised by Éomer's actions, Erkenbrand did not show it, and throughout the meal the raid or the reason for the king's visit was not talked about. Only afterwards, when the tables had been cleared and the two of them had retreated with their ale-filled mugs into a corner for some privacy, the Lord of Westfold raise his brow. "Well, Éomer King? Do you think us inept to deal with the situation?"

Slowly Éomer shook his head. "No, Erkenbrand, certainly not inept, put probably differently inclined." He gave the man a sharp look. Through all the years Erkenbrand had stood unwaveringly at Théoden King's side, and though by ten years the elder, he had been Théodred's closest friend. With a pang Éomer realized, that probably Erkenbrand had been for Théodred what Elfhelm was for him: A trusted friend and captain, the instructor of his first attempts as a Rider. There were few captains in the Mark who could motivate their men like the Lord of Westfold.

Thoughtfully, Erkenbrand turned the mug in his large hands. "There was no neglect on Sigward's side, Éomer King. He knew that the granary was a possible target for raids, lying within eyeshot of the Dunlendings, and he had it guarded day and night."

"And yet the Dunlendings dared to attack it." The mere thought revived Éomer's pain and ire, and he found it hard to keep his voice level.

Erkenbrand nodded. "Yes, they did. During the solstice night when they thought everyone would celebrate." He took a swig of ale. "It was a suicide mission. They were cut down by the guards before they even so much as touched the béowbur. And only when the men lit torches to examine the raiders they realised that they were half-grown, underfed boys, unarmed but for knives. They must have been desperate, Éomer King."

"Or it was seen as a way for the lads to prove themselves as men." Éomer put his mug on the low chest beside his chair. He did not feel like drinking. "Be it as it may, Erkenbrand, I'm not going to tolerate it and I'm not going to let it pass unpunished."

"And who do you want to punish? Their families? The lads themselves are dead. There are not more than twenty people left on the other side of the Isen."

Leaning back, Éomer crossed his arms in front of his chest. "How can you be sure that the others have not come back secretly?"

"Do you think me a fool?" Erkenbrand's bushy eyebrows nearly collided over his prominent nose in a deep frown. "I had scouts ride into Dunland as soon as I learned about the assault. There had been no new snowfall for nearly a week, Éomer King, but they did not find any trace of movement outside the village."

He gave his king a critical look. "I was expecting you, Éomer, and so were the people of the Westfold. I was not blind at the erection of the béowbur, and I knew you would not let it pass. Not that I thought you would show up with an entire Éored though." A wry smile flitted over the Westfolder's face. "But you have Éomund's temper and I feared for the worst. I know I cannot stop you from advancing into Dunland, but I am not taking any risk as far as the House of Eorl is concerned. My best scouts checked the area for miles. There are no people left as far as a day's ride except for the group opposite Landbúnes. But go and see for yourself."

Putting down his empty mug, Erkenbrand signalled to one of the men on the other side of the large room. "Coenwulf is the leader of my scouts. Tell him how many of his men you need. And you should take Gamling with you, as he not only understands Dunlandish but also knows a lot about their traditions and habits. I will ride with you as far as the Fords of the Isen. What happens on the other side of the river is entirely yours to decide."


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32**

They left Beccotlif soon after sunrise the next morning, the Lord of the Westfold riding at the king's side. The meadow where they had held the feast after the erection of the first béowbur lay silent, the snowy plot criss-crossed by countless traces of men and animals. Éomer's gaze was drawn towards the granary and deep inside he felt the same urge to reach it, touch its wood and enter it that he had felt in his dream at Yule night. He swallowed. _His dream..._

He had spent another uncomfortable night, sleep fleeing him for several hours and for the rest of the night it had been fitful. But if he had had any dreams he did not remember them any more when his squire woke him at dawn. And now again he was pondering the information Erkenbrand and Coenwulf had given him, and his thoughts were running in circles.

_Could it be that there really was only a small group of Dunlendings?And if there was, why had they stayed behind when the others had left in summer? Or had the raid merely been an attempt to set a trap for the Eorlingas? It could not be that there were only that few of them. They could not be that deft to raid a granary and think the Eorlingas would let the matter rest without retaliating._ The entire incident was not making sense to him

After a three-hours ride they reached the small garrison Erkenbrand had built soon after the war at the Fords of the Isen. It was little more than a large hut for the men guarding the Fords and a shelter for a handful of horses, but it signalled the Eorlingas' vigilance. They halted for a short break and Éomer's Éored left their tents and provisions behind with Erkenbrand's men before they finally crossed the Isen into Dunland.

Scouts had already left hours before, but the sparsely wooded land seemed empty except for the crows, whose hoarse croaks followed them. The snow was deeper here than on the plains, were it had been little more than a white dusting, but it was not deep enough to pose an obstacle and they proceeded at good speed, more or less following the course of the river in some distance. When they approached a slightly denser patch of forrest after about three hours, two of the scouts rode up, informing Éomer that the village they were heading for lay in a wide valley that stretched from the grove ahead down to the river.

"There are no traces that leave the village or have left it since the snowfalls two days ago, and there are none going into it either, "one of them reported. "We checked immediately after the assault, and have kept an eye on them since." He eyed the Éored doubtfully and then shrugged. "There are less than twenty Dunlendings here, including the children."

Éomer gritted his teeth. Children. If what Erkenbrand had said was true, the raiders themselves had been little more than children. He could no longer deceive himself. The image of some tall swarthy warriors, forcing their way into the béowbur, defiling what he accounted sacred and precious that he had nursed up to now in his mind despite of Erkenbrand's news, was crumbling apart.

Rounding the grove, they saw the village below them, a semi-circle of thatched huts, opening towards the banks of the river, where a small brook emptied into the Isen. Behind the huts small patches of gardens could be seen, fenced off by entwined willow rods. But there was no sign of life. The village lay quiet, no animals could be seen, none of the sounds of ordinary village-life be heard. And then Éomer realised what struck him as oddest: Though it was a cold winter's day no smoke rose from any of the roofs.

The Riders of the Éored divided into two groups, the larger one encircling the outskirts of the village and the others searching the huts. The search did not last long though. After little more than ten minutes one of the Riders reported. "There's no one in any of the huts, Sire."

Éomer frowned. The scouts had said that nobody had left the village. And they had confirmed the presence of people, though of only a small group. He had to get to the bottom of this. They could not have vanished into thin air. "Any life stock?"

The Rider shook his head. "No Sire, not even the odd mongrel or cat."

Before Éomer could comment, Gamling appeared at his side. "They certainly have noticed us coming, Éomer King. If they have not fled down to the river I assume they have gathered at their Soiga Ordend, their holy tree. Every village has one somewhere close to the village in the fringe of the woods. They believe they can communicate with the souls of their ancestors there."

Éomer nodded and urged Firefoot forwards into the open space that lay towards the river, his guard following close-by, and then he spotted them, huddled together near the trunk of a large chestnut tree that stretched its naked boughs into the pale winter sun near the far end of the glade where it gave way to the forest. They made no attempt to flee or defend themselves, just stood there, staring at the Riders.

"Let's have a closer look at the villagers." Éomer turned to his guards. "Make sure no one tries to run off towards the river."

His guards fanned out to form a circle around the group under the tree. He dismounted, never leaving the group out of his gaze. It consisted of sixteen people all in all, nine women and seven children, two still infants in their mothers' arms, the others of different ages, the eldest a girl of about twelve. Amongst the women were two very young ones, rather girls of fourteen or fifteen, though one of them carried one of the infants on her hip, but there were no men and the eldest of the boys did not seem to be older than ten. Éomer felt bewildered. For the first time he saw Dunlendigs different from the wild warriors, whose soot-painted faces had made them look more like the orcs they had been allied with, and he was utterly surprised. All members of the group save the infants were clad in loose suede garments that hung to their knees, cross-gartered soft boots and had a short kind of pelt-cape around their shouders. Their heads were uncoverd, the dark brown tresses comed back and gathered in a knot at the nape of their necks. All about them looked neat and orderly, as if they had clad themselves in their finery to receive the Éored. The garments were well-worked and clean, and the only thing that struck him as odd was a broad smear of red ochre that ran from the crown of their heads to the root of their noses.

It was at a second glance that he realised what was odd about their faces besides the ochre: Even those of the children showed no chubbiness but rather looked like skin-covered skulls. _Hunger can __be a cruel master... _Remembering Frithuswith's words, he swallowed. _Cruel indeed._ Certainly the Eorlingas had experienced deprivation not only after the war, and certainly he himself knew the feeling of hunger that could not be stilled, but this was no mere hunger, this was starvation. He was unable to avert his gaze from the children's skinny faces, his thoughts running wild, protectiveness prevailing any thought of revenge. He had to do something. Something to feed them and make sure at the same time that they would not try any raids in the future. And he had to find out why they were still here, as the place so obviously did not feed them.

They stood motionless and silent, children huddled against their mothers, and it was obvious that they were afraid, save for two women in the front line. While the elder of the two, a crone of countless years, wore an expression of total self-abandonment, the dark brown eyes of the young woman at her side flared with hatred. She was somewhere in her late twenties, a tall figure with a haughty face. A face that was severely marked by starvation: Brownish skin that seemed brittle, tight over nose and cheekbones, the eyes lying deep in their sockets, the cheeks sunken in. And yet she held her head high, her chin lifted in proud challenge. She held a baby clasped to her chest, wrapped in tied-up furs.

Gamling jerked his head towards the crone. "She's the leader, Éomer King. Within the village it's the women who have the say, and it's them who own the houses and gardens, and they inherit through the mother's line. According to their customs she would have a warrior as her spokesman, but as there are no men here, it seems the young one is taking that role."

Éomer motioned to his standard bearer. Folcred took a step forward standard in hand and announced: "The King of the Riddermark has come to visit judgement on you for breaking your oath. Who of you has the right to speak for the village?

Clutching her child closer, the younger woman stepped forward, her eyebrows in an arrogant quirk. "Airik speak for Ilagem Aretim, Mother of Clan."

With an angry snort Éomer turned to Gamling. Despite his misgivings the haughtiness in her voice irked him."And who tells me she has the right to do so?"

"Look at her tattoo, Éomer King," Gamling whispered close to his ear. She's of the leader's family."

Only now Éomer noticed three minute bluish triangles on the woman's left temple and the same pattern on the crone's temple, too. _Too young to be her daughter... her granddaughter perhaps._ His face stern, he locked on to her gaze. "You broke the oath your warriors took at Helms Deep. Your young warriors crossed the river. They attempted to steal grain."

Her face became expressionless, as if shutters had been closed. "We not know. No send no warriors."

Trying to suppress the nasty thought that it might even be the truth, he cut her short. "I will not discuss that. Fact is they came to raid."

She shook her head and stubbornly insisted. "We not know. We hungry. River no fish, wood no deer. We die. They sons, brothers. They try, bring food. We not know."

Out of its own volition his gaze went back to the children's faces. So that was what Frithuswith had talked about. _Hunger can make people desperate. _ There was no denying the bitter truth of her remarks. What would he have done had he been a member of this clan, the granary just across the river? Erkenbrand had called it a suicide mission, but what did those lads have to lose, facing slow death anyway? He heaved a breath, shifting his gaze back to the woman's haggard face. "Why did you not leave with the others?"

He must have touched a sore point, for she clenched her teeth and did not answer. He repeated his question, and Gamling translated. For the first time the old woman stirred and uttered some words, interrupted by a coughing fit.

Gamling shrugged. "She says they are forsaken. They cannot leave."

Éomer suppressed a groan_. _The crone's remark was not helpful in any way. "Then where are the others? Where are your men?"

Mustering him with arrogant dark eyes, this time the young one answered with the same sullen stubbornness as before. "We not know. No men. Men dead. Men left. We rest of clan."

Éomer clenched his fists, irritated by her tone. He had to do something, had to find a solution before his ire got the better of him. "You will have to answer for the deeds of your clan-members. You took an oath never to cross the Isen again by pain of death."

"Sons dead. We see dead bodies." She slipped into her own language, her voice hoarse with agitation.

"She says they saw the soldiers bury the lads in a mound near the riverbank," Gamling interpreted. "As only they crossed the river and nobody else, she thinks we are even. And she claims that the boys were not armed, no one in the village having but a knife, and therefore they did not even break the oath."

_That impertinent vixen! _And yet Éomer could but admire her cleverness and courage. If there was anybody to stir up the Dunlendings in this group it was her. He bared his teeth in a grim smile. "Even? Till the next attempt?" He needed a concept so he could feed these... _Béma, they were people, even if they were Dunlendings! He should have listened to Frithuswith._ Feeling the eyes of the Riders on him, he sensed their tension and expectation. "I will not risk another raid. People will come back to Landbúnes, and I want them to live in peace."

The woman stared at him, the corners of her mouth drawn down in a display of disdain. Éomer felt at the end his tether. Whatever he wanted to do for this clan, he had to remove this woman or he would truly be feeding the wolf. And then the idea hit him. Why not take her hostage and use her as a pawn to keep the rest from raiding again? And that would also enable himself to keep face in front of his men. He motioned two of the guards over to the woman. The men stepped up on both sides of her.

Éomer hooked his gloved thumbs behind his belt, his gaze glistening with icy determination. "You and your child will come with us."

She froze, and for a split second he saw something like panic in her dark eyes, and then, as fast as a striking viper, she pulled a knife from her sleeve. But the guards at her elbows were even faster. Strong hands grabbed her, yanking her arms behind her back and forcing them upwards, heedless of the infant that fell to the ground to lie face down in the snow at Éomer's feet. Wordless he stooped and picked it up. The bundle was much lighter than he had expected, and the child's wailing sounded thin and weak. He turned it round and stared. _Béma, what as face!_ There was nothing of the rosy chubbiness he was used to with young children, as hunger had carved the features into a pointy triangle, forehead and skull seeming much too large for the tiny face. The eyes were squeezed shut, unnaturally large and sitting in even larger sockets, the little mouth twisted askew, crying. And across the forehead down to the tiny nose was the same ochre mark all the others bore.

"Éomer Cyning." One of the guards handed him the knife he had picked up from where it had fallen into the snow. Éomer looked at it, the wailing infant still in the crook of his arm. A small one-edged blade made of flint, not longer than his palm, razor-sharp but it had neither point nor hilt.

Recalling the way she had held it, realisation hit him like a blow in the guts. Looking up he met the woman's eye. The iron grip of the guards forced her upper body to bend forwards, and her hair had come loose and hung wildly around her face. Raising her head with an effort, she glanced at him and the child in his arms. He raised the knife for all to see, and she screamed, a terrible keening cry, like the death cry of a rabbit in the talons of the hawk.

Éomer motioned to his guards. "Let her go, but guard her. She could not have stabbed me with this and she never meant to. She wanted to kill the child."

Looking doubtfully at him, the men let go of her arms and she slowly straightened up. The old woman at her side asked her something, and she answered curtly never taking her eyes off the child in Éomer's arms. He saw the crone's eyes widen in shock, and then she staggered forwards, throwing herself at his feet, spluttering breathlessly.

"Gamling, tell her to get up." Only with an effort Éomer managed to keep his face stern and resist the urge to pull the old woman up.

Gamling took the woman by the shoulders, but shaking her head she refused and continued begging instead, repeatedly touching the smear of ochre on her forehead. Visibly uncomfortable, the old man turned to his king. "She begs you to kill them and not take her granddaughter. They are ready to die. That ochre sign seems to be something they normally do to their dead, she calls it "the blood of the Mother". All they ask from you is a clean death and to be buried like the boys were and not be fed to the dogs."

Éomer frowned. Did the Dunlendings have no differing words for wolf and dog? Or had Gamling misunderstood the old woman? Out of the corner of his eye he saw Éothain step up beside him, and wordlessly he shoved the baby into his childhood-friend's hands and touched the crone's shoulder, motioning to her to stand up.

Keeping his hand on her frail shoulder, he looked into her face while addressing Gamling. "Tell her we will take her granddaughter and the infant as hostages. They will stay at the Hornburg as a pawn to ensure that her clan keeps their oath. I have to protect my people. If she cooperates nothing will happen to her and her child and we will feed her clan. If they cross the river again we will kill the hostages."

Sentence by sentence Gamling translated The old woman stared at Éomer, the disbelief in her eyes obvious. She slowly shook her head, but the young woman took the word, pointing at the child in Éothain's arms. "Give back Umirok. Umirok stay with clan. Airik go with horse-king." Éomer could not but acknowledge her spirit, though she was fighting a lost battle. The effort to keep the trembling out of her voice was audible, but folding her arms in front of her chest, she tried to show self-assuredness.

Putting his hand on the pommel of his sword, her shook his head. "No, Airik. You and the child will come with us if you want your clan to live."

Gamling translated for the others to understand, and some of the women started to whisper, looking undecidedly at their leader, and suddenly the young woman nodded, her face in grim determination. "Airik and Umirok come. You feed clan."

Éomer let out a breath he had not known to be holding. His plan worked. In the Mark they would give a handful of grain to anyone who was put into servitude, thus acknowledging the duty to keep them fed. They had no grain but the oats they had brought for their horses. Éomer motioned to Berhtulf. "Fetch a bag of oats and give each of them a handful."

With a nod Berhtulf complied, distributing the symbolic fare. Éomer clenched his teeth, seeing how carefully the meagre portion was clutched by the women and children who obviously did not understand that the oats were merely a token. And then Berhtulf reached the last one of the group, the eldest girl Éomer had noticed in the beginning. She too clutched her oats, but seeing that there were more left in Berhtulf's bag, she grabbed his sleeve. Stuffing the oats he had given her into her mouth, she pointed at the bag, holding out her hand for more. The young guard hesitated, and then he shoved the nearly empty bag into her skinny hands. Clutching the bag with both hands to her chest, she looked at him, her eyes wide with surprise, and then chaos broke out.

Screaming like a litter of desperate cats, the other children rushed at her, the elder ones pushing the younger ones aside to reach the bag. A boy of about ten reached her first, only to be stopped sharp by her elbow hitting his face. Her voice rose over the din, a harsh, angry bark, and the other children backed off. Éomer grimaced with disgust, seeing his prejudices verified. _That's what we'll get if we __feed them: Wild beasts, striving for more._

And then he noticed that under the girl's command the children were shuffling into a queue, the smallest in front. He blinked. Opening the bag, the girl passed the queue, filling outstretched hands with oats till the bag was empty. He swallowed, trying to get rid of the lump that formed in his throat. He wished himself far away, but the ritual was not over yet. Taking the length of rope one of his men presented to him, he stepped up to Airik. She gave him but a short glance before her eyes went back to her child in Éothain's crook.

"Airik of Dunland, I take you hostage for the good of our people. Submit to bondage and your people shall live and be fed." He raised the thong over her head and she squeezed her eyes shut as the nook slid over her head and down to her neck. _What must it cost that proud woman to suffer such treatment._ He did not know where that thought had come from and he did not like it at all. Swivelling round, he motioned to Éothain. "Get the hostage some food and give her a chance to feed the child. And tell the Riders to have some food, too. What they don't need should be left behind. We'll leave as soon as possible."

While Éothain and Gamling accompanied the woman to one of the houses, Éomer went to his horse. He loosened the blanket that was strapped behind his saddle, well protected in waxed cloth, and dug through his saddle bags. Every Rider of an Éored had an emergency ration with him, not much, just a smallish packet of flat-bread and dried meat, but as they would reach the garrison at the Fords in not more than some hours he had no need for it. And anyway he felt as if he would never be able again to enjoy food. Walking up to the chestnut tree, where the Dunlendings still stood like penned-up sheep, he spread his blanket on the ground and put the wrapped up meat and bread on it. Folcred appeared at his side, adding his ration, while Berhtulf put in three apples, and as the king's order spread up to those that still guarded the village in the outer circle, single Riders were sent, carrying the shares of their comrades.

It took not more than half an hour until Gamling appeared again, followed by Airik and Éothain. The woman was clad in simpler garment, fit for travelling, a bundle slung over her back, while the captain was again holding the child. Scanning the heap of provisions on the blanket, Gamling fished out a piece of cheese. "You had better had it checked, Éomer King. The Dunlendings don't keep cattle and with most of them white foods do not agree." Seeing the king's frown, he added: "We traded with them when I was a small boy, and I'll never forget the uproar because they thought my mother tried to poison them, as most of the group got sick after trying some yoghurt and cheese."

Soon two men checked the pile, while the others were readying their horses. When they were ready to ride, Éomer motioned Gamling to his side.

"Gamling, you're taking the woman in front of you. She probably has never sat on a horse and I don't want anything to happen to her. "

Airik eyed the large horse mistrustful, when Gamling explained to her, but then she nodded and reached out to take her child from Éothain. "No." The woman swivelled round at Éomer's voice, glaring at him with smouldering eyes. He shook his head. "Éothain will carry your daughter, for her and your safekeeping. We'll ride fast, and you'll need all you attention to stay on the horse." She opened her mouth, but said nothing after a look into his face. He jerked his head towards the provisions on the blanket. Not one of the Dunlendings had approached the blanket yet, but he could see the longing glances, especially on the faces of the children. "Tell your people to take and eat but to be careful. Too much at once might prove dangerous."

She bared her teeth in an angry snarl. "Clan no fools. No swine." Stepping forward, she addressed her people in a quiet but determined tone. The women nodded, and Airik turned back to Éomer. "Riders go, clan take food. Ilagem Aretim give clan food." Her eyes wandered over the village, and then she turned abruptly. "We go, horse-king. Airik heart bleed."

* * *

><p><strong>Annotations:<strong>

Tolkien mentions only one word of the **tongue of Dunland**: "Forgoil", meaning "Strawheads". Having to "create" names and words for the Dunlendings that sound different from the ones that are given for Men of Rohan and Gondor, but at the same time have a unique sound that makes it believable that they belong to the same language, I simply took the Greek words for "lady" "great mother" "my daughter" and "holy tree" and spelled them backwards.

As for the **tribal structure of the Dunlendings**: Some years ago I read an anthropological essay on some Malaysian tribes/communities who are Muslims and are represented to the "outside " by their men, but have matriarch structures inside the villages, e.g. land being inherited through the mother's line. The men were merely spokesmen of a council of the most important women of the village.

As I wanted to have something that differs entirely from what is generally imagined for Gondor and Rohan, a somehow older culture, that was exactly what I needed.;-)

**white foods**: dairy products. A lot of Asian adults cannot digest milk due to the lack of a certain enzym.


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33**

They crossed the Fords shortly after sundown, the red glow of the kitchen-fires in the yard of the garrison showing them the way up the turfed banks. Awaiting their return, Erkenbrand's men had constructed three makeshift hearths in the open, and by the smell that wafted over to them, were cooking a traditional stew: mutton and cabbage.

Dismounting near the shelter for the horses, they were greeted by the barking hounds that were kept in the garrison, and Airik shrieked in fear and demanded her child. Éomer turned to Éothain. "Give her the child, Éothain, and get her into the warm. And remove that bloody rope." He had done what custom and ancient law demanded, but it made no sense to humiliate her more than necessary.

A groom came up to take Firefoot, and Erkenbrand stepped out of the shadow of the cabin. Approaching his king, the Westfolder gazed enquiringly at the woman and her child. "Hostages," Éomer grunted. "Nearly starved. I doubt she can stomach that stew, and as for the child..."

Erkenbrand nodded knowingly and turned in the direction of the smallish shed that held the garrison's usual kitchen. "Frithuhelm!"

A man appeared in the open door, his broad shoulders nearly touching both door-posts. Straightening to his impressive height, he came over to them, drying his hands on a cloth he had tied around his waist as a kind of apron. "My lords?" Intelligent water-blue eyes set in a young face mustered them. The man was not older than in his mid-twenties, his beard and hair that blond that it seemed white in the flickering light of the kitchen-fires.

Erkenbrand jerked his head towards the Dunlendings. "They need to be cosseted, I fear. Take them under your wing."

The giant nodded and turned to Airik, reaching out his impressive hand. "Come woman. I'm Frithuhelm. I'll take care of you and your child." His voice was a resonant bass and yet he spoke in a soft and low way that contradicted his frame. Airik followed him into the cabin after only a moment's hesitation. Éomer stared in surprise. Noticing Éomer's bafflement, Erkenbrand chuckled.

"Believe me, he can roar when necessary. But there is no one like him if man or animal needs to be nursed and nurtured . He had a farm north of the Coomb before the war and stays at the Hornburg now, his wife and child having died of the coughing disease last spring." Erkenbrand shook his head with a pitying grimace. "Must have been quite a blow, to have saved them through the war only to lose them to that scourge."

_The cursed disease that had also killed his mother_. His face grim, Éomer nodded. "I should write to Gondor. They do magic in the treatment of illness there in Mundburg. Perhaps their healers know a remedy."

"It certainly would not be amiss. But come in now. Supper will soon be ready, and I would like to hear how you fared on the other side of the Isen and why you brought those two with you."

Soon Éomer sat in a corner seat of the cabin with Erkenbrand, a mug of mulled cider in front of him and informed Erkenbrand about the situation on the other bank of the Isen, while the room filled by and by with the men of the king's guard, gathering around a large table close to the opposite wall. Thoughtfully the marshal of the Westfold turned his mug in his large hands. "I did not know that they were in that dire straits, and I'm sure Sigward didn't know either. And neither did we know that there were only women and children." He shrugged. "It makes no sense, Éomer King. Why did they stay, when the others obviously left not to starve?"

"I don't know." Éomer leaned against the wall, feeling tired in the warmth after a day spent out in the wintry open. "But we'll have to find out, Erkenbrand. That is one of the reasons why I took her with me, the other one being the fact that she was the only one who had enough spirit left to fight us."

Erkenbrand grinned. "A wildcat from Dunland."

Éomer grimaced. "Yes, and one who would have the power to stir up the Dunlendings once they come back. I suppose she is the actual leader and not only the spokeswoman of that crone." He shrugged. "I wanted retaliation for the raid on the béowbur, but seeing them I could not but feed them. But this woman I want under control."

"You promised them food?" Putting down his empty mug, Erkenbrand faced his king.

"I did." Éomer also drained his mug. "But I have not given any thought on how it should be delivered." He shrugged, finally putting the mug back on the table. "I suppose taking it over by boat near their village would be the easiest, but transporting supplies by horse would be a plausible reason to openly check the area. I would like to know as soon as possible, should the others come back."

"So do I." Erkenbrand motioned to one of the guards to refill their mugs. He shoved the steaming brew over to Éomer, and for a while the two men sat in silence, until the Westfolder cleared his throat. "I'll talk to Sigward, Éomer King. I suppose a combination of both ways would give us the most control." Giving Éomer a meaningful look, the Marshal smiled. "It was not only me who expected you to show up and spring into action. The béowburs are special, Éomer King, not only to you, but also to your people. But perhaps we do take things a bit different here in the Westfold. We did not always live in enmity with the Dunlendings. In my grandfather's days there was regular trade with them. They mainly wanted barley groats and paid in pelts. There are no pelts like those the Hillmen tan. And a satisfied neighbour is a peaceful neighbour." Taking another swig, he shook his head. "Those poor buggers. There were only the twelve ritual basket-loads in the béowbur at Landbúnes. And to lose one's life for that." Erkenbrand shrugged. "But on the other hand I'm happy that it was not the granary at Baeccotlif they tried to raid. I would have had no means to stop the people from a campaign of revenge." Giving Éomer a wry look, Erkenbrand clarified: "Your performance at the erection made it something outstanding. A token, a symbol of the Mark's better future." Raising his mug again, he chuckled. "And I bet, as soon as your first child is born, it will become a place of pilgrimage. Why, only the other week I witnessed the farrier's wife touching the carvings."

Éomer felt his face grow hot with embarrassment, remembering the two old men's conversation in the garden of Meduseld on Yule night. Obviously people expecting virility were not restricted to Edoras only. But had not he himself felt the call of the warm-coloured wood, the beauty of the carvings? Had not the soothing solidity of the wood called him back to life and to his people after the ritual? The granaries indeed were special, and not only to him.

Seeing Éomer's embarrassment, Erkenbrand cleared his throat. "As it is, it would make sense if I took the hostage to the Hornburg. There is no one in Edoras who speaks her language, whereas here I have several old people who at least understand it." He scratched his beard. "As a matter of fact my mother does, and her being an old woman, there is a fair chance that she might manage to win your wildcat's confidence." He sighed. "I admit I would sleep better if I knew where the other Dunlendings went and if or when we must expect them back."

Éomer nodded. "You are right, Erkenbrand. And furthermore I would not like to have the child travel more than necessary in this weather. It is important that they both survive." Only after he had uttered the words he realised that he really meant them.

The baby had started to wail again, and kneeling on a bedding of some sheepskins and blankets on the floor near the hearth, Airik started to unwrap her daughter. Soon an almost unbearable stench reached Éomer's nostrils. He grimaced and Erkenbrand rolled his eyes, suppressing a smirk. Shaking his head, Frithuhelm picked up the soiled swaddling, and left the cabin, to come back after a short while with some clean rags, a bowl and a small jar in his hands. Placing the bowl on the hearthstone, he handed the other things to Airik, pointing at the jar: "It's lard. Try to clean her with that. You would surely make her bleed if you used water on that rash."

Airik glared at him angrily: "No milk. Bad food. Make..." She pointed at the child's sore skin.

"Rash." Frithuhelm repeated. "I don't care what caused it, woman. Just use the lard, and it will get better."

At that moment the door opened again, and Swithwulf entered, carrying a pile of empty bowls and two loaves of bread. "All demons of the void! What a stench!" With ostentation he left the door open, causing a gust of cold air to waft through the room and walked over to the table to put down his load. _That conceited dolt again! _Though Éomer without doubt agreed with the opinion of Eáldread's nephew, he felt his ire rise at the young Rider's demeanour.

Airik glared at the young man and made to answer, but raising a hand, Frithuhelm intercepted her, addressing the young Rider in a casual tone. "Just shut up, boy, will you? Your shit surely didn't smell like roses when your mother changed your swaddlings."

The guards at the large table grinned, but Swithwulf pulled a face and left the cabin without closing the door. Shaking his head, Frithuhelm rose and closed it, while the woman cleaned the child and loosened her clothing to breast-feed her daughter.

Always the sight of a young mother nursing her baby had been a sight that had deeply moved Éomer, stirring protectiveness and male pride alike, and he knew that to be one point he had in common with most Eorlings. Even now, more than twelve years after the birth of his own daughter he still remembered the sight of Ethelfleda nursing her, and the calm beauty of the picture flooded him with love for his child each time he thought of that scene of rosy lusciousness.

Of their own volition his eyes were drawn to the suckling child, and what he saw made his heart cramp with pity and guilt. A little haggard face, a bony triangle in the flickering light of the fireplace, big sunken eyes, closed in eager concentration, a tiny mouth, its thin lips clamped down on the mother's teat... Éomer clenched his fists, feeling the back of his eyes burning. There would be no milk for the hungry child. Where the image in his mind featured well-rounded flesh, teeming with sweet nourishment, pouring forth life, there was nothing but empty skin, wrinkled and barren. Swallowing he realised that Airik was merely keeping her child quiet instead of nursing it, but Frithuhelm quietly looked on, nodding to her with an encouraging smile. She was shifting the baby to the other breast, when Swithwulf re-entered, this time carrying a large bowl of steaming stew. After a short glance at the nursing woman, he curled his lip in disdain. "Why does that Dunland slut have to put up such a nauseating display. She has an udder like an old dried up cow and sure she has as much milk."

"You should only talk about things you understand, whipper-snapper." Frithuhelm's voice was determined, but his face was still friendly. "She's half starved, and her milk is near to naught, but she knows better than you. As long as she keeps the babe suckling, there is a chance for her milk to come back to the full extent once she's gained a bit of weight."

Swithwulf smirked. "I see, shit-kicker. You certainly know about cows."

"Swithwulf!" Éomer's voice was like the crack of a whip. The young Rider swivelled round, only now realising that the king and the marshal of the Westmark had been sitting in the far off corner all the time.

"Sire?" Straightening up, Swithwulf tried to appear unflustered, but involuntarily took a step back as he met Éomer's gaze.

"As it seems you still have too much energy, report to your captain that you are taking a second watch besides the one you have been appointed to."

Bowing to his king, Swithwulf turned to leave, but before he could reach the door, Frithuhelm rose, slowly and seemingly nonchalant and stepped into the young man's way. Blocking him from reaching the door, Frithuhelm looked down on him, and then said: "You are right, stripling. I am a shit-kicker, a farmer, and as a farmer I know about kine. And I tell you, I have gelded more than one bullock that got too fresh." The giant's face was calm, as was his voice, but Swithwulf seemed more than relived when Frithuhelm finally stepped aside to let him pass.

Erkenbrand chuckled quietly, but Frithuhelm took the bowl from the hearthstone and crouched again beside Airik as if nothing had happened. Holding the bowl in front of her face, he said: "Oatmeal gruel. That's good for you and the child. Try to feed it to your daughter." Seeing Airik's sceptical look, he smiled. "Tomorrow we'll go to the Hornburg, and I'll get her some goat milk. That will be good for her tummy and the rush will go away. But now you have to make do with this." He thrust the bowl into her hand, and after sniffing its contents carefully, she took a mouthful and then bent down to the child, letting Umirok suck the gruel from her lips.

"Éomer King?" Erkenbrand's voice made Éomer realise that he had been staring with utter fascination at the interaction between Frithuhelm and the woman from Dunland. He had not noticed that bowls with stew had been put before them. Taking the wooden spoon from beside the bowl, he abstractedly stirred the thick mixture.

"You should eat, Éomer King. Once the fat gets cold it will clog your throat." Erkenbrand broke a crust off the loaf in front of them and put it beside Éomer's bowl before tearing another piece off for himself. Reluctantly Éomer started to eat, while Erkenbrand gobbled down his portion and soon called to one of the men for a second helping.

Airik too had finished the gruel and Frithuhelm now filled her bowl with a small portion of stew, carefully skimming the fat before handing it to the woman. "Give me the child and eat. It's broth and vegetables. No meat and fat yet, but if this stays down and doesn't give you any trouble, you can try some tomorrow."

The woman stared at him with hostile eyes, but Frithuhelm just sat down in front of her, holding out the bowl and waited, a bulwark of confidence and quiet patience. After a while Airik reluctantly reached for the food, and with perfect ease the huge man took the child, putting the little head on his shoulder and patting it softly on the back till a surprisingly loud burp could be heard. A weary smile flitted over Airik's features, and finally she started to eat, slowly and careful.

When the door opened again, it was Éothain who entered, and fetching himself a bowl of stew he slumped down on the bench besides Éomer. "Let me guess: Eáldread's little pisser got shafted for opening his trap again."

Éomer grunted. "That lad is a pain in the arse. As much as I esteem his uncle, this boy is nothing but a spoilt brat. High time to be dealt with."

Éothain chuckled. "Send him to Aldburg. Though it's a pity that Grimboern has moved to Ithilien with Éowyn. There never was a meaner captain than him."

Erkenbrand rose labouredly to his feet. "Well, I'll leave you two to it and have a look at my men before hitting the sack." Grimacing he rubbed his left shoulder. "Seems we're in for a change of weather. That bloody old scar itches." The marshal went outside, and for a while Éomer and Éothain sat in silence, the latter hungrily gobbling down his food. Only when he had finished and was scooping up the last drops with a crust of bread did he notice Éomer's half-eaten portion.

"Eat, Éomer, you'll need your strength tomorrow."

Éomer looked at his bowl. The stew had been cooling slowly and now its surface, the spoon and the inner walls of the bowl were covered with a thin opaque film of tallow, making the food look like covered with mildew. He shook his head. "It'll give me the pukes if I force it down."

With a shrug, Éothain pulled the bowl close and started to finish it off. "It would be a pity to let such a good stew go waste. And you needn't torture yourself, man. True, I would have liked to give you a good hammering back in Edoras, but you came to your senses, didn't you? And you did what could be done, considering the needs of both, Eorlingas and Dunlendings. You feed them. Even that snappy vixen." He jerked his head towards Airik, who had finished her helping of stew and taken her daughter back and was now putting the baby to sleep in a nest of sheepskin rugs. "You could not have done differently. Nobody knew they were in such need of food."

Éomer gritted his teeth, not meeting his friend's eyes. He was thankful that Éothain chose to make light of their grievous argument, but he was no way fooling himself. He could have known if he had cared. He could have prevented their suffering, had he but listened to Frithuswith, months back in summer.

The baby was fast asleep by now, and Frithuhelm bent towards Airik, speaking to her in a low voice. Éomer saw the woman bristle immediately, her face and mien signalling refusal, but then she nodded reluctantly. The giant rose, and walking over to the table where the guards were sitting, exchanged some words with them, causing the men to nod, and then he left the cabin, a scowling Airik in tow.

Licking the fat off his spoon, Éothain shook his head. "I wonder where Frithuhelm gets his patience from. I spent less than half an hour in her company, and I felt like throttling her, and I'm sure Gamling felt alike." He stretched, and rose. "Come, Éomer, let's call it a day. It'll be slow riding again tomorrow and we'd better start early."

Ere long all but the guards made ready to sleep, but while Éothain soon snored happily in one of the bunks, Éomer lay awake, staring into the dim room. Now and then one of the sleepers would stir, one of the guards, whispering with hushed voices, would walk over to the hearth and add some more fuel, men would stand up and step outside to replace the guards there. Each movement had him awake and alert, and though he dozed in between, he found no rest, as pictures he could not suppress were filling his mind. The haggard faces of the children... the little girl's hand, begging Berhtulf for another handful of oats... Gytha's worried face, when she had asked him if he had ever made a mistake that had caused others to die... six faceless youths, lying in the snow on the banks of the Isen... How many others had starved, before they had been desperate enough to try the raid?... slate-grey eyes in a face framed by midnight-coloured hair, reproaching him for his clinging to prejudices... Frithuswith's stern face... _Beware Éomer Cyning..._

It was early morning and still dark, when the baby stirred again. One of the guards woke Frithuhelm, and like the evening before the man supplied Airik with rags and gruel and accompanied her outside to relieve herself. Éomer crawled out of the bunk and left the cabin. The change of weather Erkenbrand had predicted had taken place. Where the air had been dry and crisp the day before, it was now moist though still cold, with low grey clouds, causing a dreary feeling of general clamminess. No doubt they were in for snow.

**ooo**

"I'm sorry Éomer Cyning, but that clearly is beyond my imagination." Erkenbrand shrugged. "Winfrid told me about the great warships of Dol Amroth and the endless sea, but to imagine waves that high that they can destroy ships as big as houses... You simply ask too much of me."

It was Éomer's second day at the Hornburg, whereto he and his guard had accompanied Erkenbrand, while the Éored had continued directly to Edoras. They were sitting in Erkenbrand's study, a room that looked more than an armoury despite the large high desk beside one of the slit windows and Éomer found it rather difficult to explain to his marshal what was going on in the south and especially what role Amrothos played in all the current problems. He was just thinking about how to describe the delta of the Harnen and the assumed position of the corsairs' hideout when Erkenbrand's daughter Herelufu entered, looking utterly flustered.

"Father, Éomer King, I'm sorry to interrupt, but Grandmother urgently asks you to come to the solar."

The lord of Westfold frowned. "For what reason?"

"I don't know. Grandmother was talking with the Dunlending woman and they seemed to disagree, but I'm not sure. That Airik always sounds as if she would like to bite off our heads, no matter if she speaks the tongue of Dunland or the language of the Mark. And then suddenly Grandmother exclaimed and paled and sent me to fetch you."

Erkenbrand nearly jumped out of his chair. "Don't you tell me she is alone with that woman now."

"No, Mother and Lady Tortgyth are there as well as Lady Wifrun. But I don't know what's the matter as grandmother and that woman spoke Dunlendish all the time."

When they entered the solar, they found Lady Egefride sitting in an upholstered chair beside the hearth, Erkenbrand's wife and the two ladies of the household hovering nearby, while Airik stood with her back towards the window, her face in her usual scowl. Her child was sleeping peacefully on a small cot in the corner.

"Well, Airik," the old woman said in the language of the Mark, "here you have both, the marshal of the Westfold and the king of the Mark. Go ahead and ask them yourself."

"Ask us what?" Éomer could not help feeling galled by the Dunlending's attitude.

"Where are women?" Airik's tone and bearing were sheer accusation.

"What women?" Éomer and Erkenbrand looked at each other, having spoken simultaneously.

"Women of clan."

"Dunlending women? Here at the Hornburg?" Erkenbrand was at a loss. "As long as I remember there has never been a single Dunlending woman in the Hornburg."

"Where you take women?" Airik persisted.

"She accuses the Eorlingas of regularly having taken women captive over the last decades," Lady Egefride explained.

"What?" Éomer stared at the Dunlending. "Airik, the Eorlingas have never taken..."

"Forgoil take!" Airik clenched her fists. "Forgoil hunt clan, cross river, come wood, come hills, take women, kill men, kill children."

"You are mad, woman. How can you say such a thing?" Erkenbrand's usually friendly face had darkened considerably.

"Airik no fool. Airik see."

"You saw Eorlings hunting Dunlendings?" Éomer was at a loss.

"No. But Airik see … see blood, see …" she pointed at her tunic.

Éomer turned for help to Lady Egefride.

"She told me she saw traces, Éomer King. Blood, torn garments, entrails as if people had been slaughtered, gutted."

Éomer stared. "Gutted?"

"Yes. Men, children. Clan find blood, bones, hair ...ahur..." She pointed again as her tunic. "Ahur men, children. No ahur women." She glared at Éomer. "Sogam say Forgoil kill men, kill children, no kill women. Take women. Where women? Airik see women of clan."

Éomer shook his head. "Airik, we never took any women from Dunland to the Hornburg. We never crossed the Isen to hunt your people. We killed your warriors in battle, but we kill no children."

She stubbornly raised her chin. "Clan lose people. Many years, many people. Lose Airik mother. Lose Airik sister. Small child. Clan afraid. Clan think oirith..." She fell into her own language and after a while Lady Egefride stopped her, holding up her hand and interpreted for the others.

"For several years they believed that a monster killed and devoured their men and children and abducted their women. But then some years ago an old man by the name of Sogam came to their leaders and told them it was the Eorlingas who were behind all this."

"An old man? Could she mean Saruman?" Slowly things were falling into place for Éomer. That would be an explanation for the hatred the Dunlendings had displayed at Helms Deep, would explain why they had allied themselves with orcs. His gaze met Lady Egefride's, and the old woman nodded with grim resolution. _They did not kill the women... Saruman's Uruks... orcs that did not weaken in sunlight... a cross-breed of men and orcs... Béma have mercy... What and who had drowned in the dungeons of Isengard? _Éomer felt his stomach churn.

Egefride cleared her throat. "The wizard gave them arms and told them he would bring forth a great army to avenge their people and to help storm the Hornburg to free their enslaved women."

Airik had followed Lady Egefride's interpretation with a frown, but now she nodded. "Old man Soreg Sogam talk clan, talk Ilagem Aretim, say Forgoil take women, kill men." Her voice wavered, but still she looked at Éomer challengingly. "Say Forgoil feed children to dogs."

Éomer barely managed to suppress a gasp. That was the reason for her fear when they arrived at the garrison! That was the reason she had tried to kill her child! Erkenbrand had jumped up at the outrageous accusation, but Éomer waved him down. Turning towards Airik, he spoke slowly and accentuated. "Airik, that wizard betrayed you, as he betrayed us. We never kept any Dunlending women as slaves. It was him.. . "

"You lie!" She screamed furiously, but Éomer could not but notice that her arrogant self-assuredness had vanished. Rather than crossing her arms in front of her chest dismissively, as she had done before, she now seemed to embrace herself in a desperate try to feign a firm conviction.

"I don't lie, Airik. We never did anything like that. I swear. He took your women to breed his Uruks, he killed your men and children to feed them."

"Swear nas sardhna!" Her eyes gleamed and she nearly spat the words.

"What?" Éomer turned to Erkenbrand's mother. "I don't understand."

Lady Egefride shrugged. "She demands you to swear like a man, but I do not understand what she means."

The arrogant impression was back on Airik's face. With a haughty twitch of her mouth, she pointed at Éomer's crotch. "Put hand on aidhihra, swear. You lie, you no children."

The two women behind Lady Egefride's chair exclaimed in indignation, and all of a sudden Éomer realised how the Gondorean nobles must feel towards the Eorlingas. _Suspicious barbarians._ With a firm nod, he put his right hand on his groin.

"I swear, the Eorlingas did not capture women from Dunland. Nor did they kill men other than warriors in battle and raiders that had crossed the Isen into the Riddermark. And never did they or will they throw children to the dogs."

She held his gaze, but her face sagged and her lower lip started to tremble.

Seeing the gap in her defence, Éomer went for a direct attack. "Tell me Airik, why did you stay behind, when the others left in summer? You must have known that the river was dead through the wizard's poison."

Slowly she bent her head, murmuring haltingly in her own language, her voice choked with tears. When she had finished Lady Egefride rose, her old face full of pity, and pulling the weeping woman into her arms, she translated. "Her grandmother was the leader of their council. She never got over the loss of her daughter and granddaughter. When Saruman came and accused the Eorlingas, to have killed and abducted them, she convinced her people to ally themselves with him to take vengeance. But the warriors coming back from Helm's Deep said that Saruman played false and poisoned the river. The Isen is sacred to them, they believe it to be their ancestor, or rather some kind of god if I understood correctly. And they blamed the poisoning on her grandmother who insisted on an alliance with the wizard. Therefore they forced her and her clan to stay behind when they left, to starve as a kind of sacrifice to the river, or to survive and prove that the river has forgiven them. Since late summer they have painted their foreheads with ochre, because they regarded themselves as living dead."

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><p><strong>annotations<strong>

******Forgoil** meaning "strawheads" is the only word Tolkien himself mentions. Like in the previous chapter, I used Greek spelled backwards, thus creating "Dunlendish" words for "old man". "wizard", "monster" and "testicles", as well as the phrase "like a man" but the meaning of all these words get clear through the context of the dialogue.


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34 **

Éomer stomped to get the snow off his boots. The change of weather Erkenbrand had predicted at the Fords of the Isen had set in for good the evening of his arrival at the Hornburg, and for two days and nights it had snowed with but short breaks. Fortunately there had been no strong wind, but the flakes had been large and moist, creating a thick cover of sticky snow that almost drowned out any noise. And the clouds still hung grey and threatening. He was glad he had insisted that his Éored go directly to Edoras. There was a realistic chance they had managed to reach Céapham before the snowfall had begun. He could not remember masses of snow like at present to have ever fallen in the Folde or the East-Emnet, and he hoped that the Riders had not been seriously troubled on their way. From his position high on the walls he had a view over the inner bailey as well as out over the ramp that led up to the gate and down over the Coomb. In several places men had started to clear away the snow from doors and stairs and two groups were busy shovelling a path across the bailey and down the rampart to the causeway.

It was still early but he had not been able to endure the stifling atmosphere of his near to windowless room. It was evident everywhere that the Hornburg was first of all a fortress and no dwelling place. A fortress they had nearly lost to Saruman's armies save for the help of the Ents. His gaze followed the massive line of the wall. Repairs had been made where the fires of Orthanc had burst gaps into it, but the lack of quality compared with the original stonework was more than obvious. And still there was much to be done.

Absent-mindedly he raked his teeth through his moustache. Gimli had shown high interest in the Glittering Caves. What if he could come to an agreement with the dwarf? Certainly dwarven stonework would be the best he could ever get, and the Eorlingas were by far not in need of all the caves below Thrihyrne. His gaze went over to the ramp and the narrow path that led to the postern-door near the edge of the cliff. Had not the dwarf joined them in the excursion, he would have been killed there and then, hacked to pieces by Saruman's orcs.

His gaze wandered to the towering citadel and he was wondering how much longer they would have held out had not help arrived from outside. Help launched by Gandalf... _To walk in the myths of old and yet on the green grass of the plains._ He still could not grasp the fact that the woods themselves had come to the aid of the Mark. But that day also Erkenbrand had more than earned his title of Marshal of the Westfold, and certainly his courageous persistence and skilled commitment had stopped the tongues of those who had whispered about him being nothing but Théodred's favourite.

Théodred had always been fascinated by the Hornburg, this ancient fortress showing the skill and power of the Men of the West, and had been delighted to make it his abode. Éomer shook his head. He himself had always felt imprisoned in the Hornburg rather than protected by its mighty walls and he found himself yearning for the cosiness of the wooden walls and pillars of Meduseld.

_When had he started to see the Golden Hall as his home? _He was not sure, but he longed to be there, to stand on the terrace and look out over the plains, or sit in the warmth of his study, reading... Reading Lothíriel's letters by the soothing glow of the peat fire, while his thoughts were wandering back to the sunlit shores of Dol Amroth. It would be good to sleep in his own bed, in a room that had windows one could throw wide to look at the sky and at the mountains that separated him from the woman he loved.

He paused, recalling that Lothíriel was no longer in Dol Amroth. He gritted his teeth, imagining her in Pelargir, in the house of Radhruin. And yet, he knew he had to be thankful for the care and commitment that Gondorean showed towards her and her family. He tried to convince himself that Radhruin's friendship with Amrothos was the reason for the Gondorean's constant efforts, but he could not help feeling deprived. _Why could it not be him, Éomer Eomund's son being there at her side, comforting her and setting out to find that imbecile she called her brother? _More than ever he felt the confinement of the stonewalls around him. He heaved a breath. It was useless to fret, and he had better go down to the stables and have a look at Firefoot, who most certainly felt as awkward as he himself.

The stairs up to the walls had not been cleared yet, and he stepped carefully, avoiding the ice-covered edges. In the yard in front of the stables stablehands were already wheeling barrows of horse dung to the dung heap, while others were busy carrying buckets of water from the semi-frozen trough to the stables to let the water warm up there before giving it to the horses. Upon entering, he nearly collided with a young servant, carrying a small clay pot filled with milk, and he remembered that he had seen a goat in the first stall the previous days.

"I don't understand how you can give milk to that wild Dunland bitch." An old woman's voice, by the sound of it, brittle and full of hatred." Éomer stopped in his tracks. His eyes adjusting to the dimness of the stable, he could make out the bent figure of the woman in front of the goat's box.

From inside the stall a male voice answered, resonant and low. No doubt Frithuhelm's. "She's the king's hostage, Arild, and Lord Erkenbrand ordered me to fatten her up. But then: The milk is for her child, not for her. Gamling says the Dunlendings can't stomach white foods."

The crone spat. "That only proves that they are beasts."

Frithuhelm chuckled. "I wouldn't be so sure about that, Arild. A sounder of boars once chased old Widmund up a tree when he was on his way to the market. They gobbled down two big loaves of cheese, and I doubt they had any problems with them."

Éomer could see the huge Eorling appear in the stable door, handing the old woman a small jug. "And it's not as if your grandchildren are getting less for the few drops the poor mite drinks."

"Pha," the crone huffed, "I would rather throw the milk to the swine than feed that..."

"Arild, stop it. Go and take the milk to your grandchildren." Frithuhelm's voice did not brook any objection, and taking the jug, the crone shuffled out, passing Éomer without a glance, while murmuring angrily under her breath.

"That old harpy is really a pain in the arse." Leaning on his dung fork, an elderly man further down the stable aisle shook his head.

Frithuhelm just shrugged and closed the door to the goat's stall. "She has reasons to be bitter, Bedgeat, as have many others. I just wish she would not dwell on it so much." Turning to leave, he beheld Éomer standing near the entrance and bowed. "Good morning, Éomer King."

"Éomer King? That's good news." The stable hand approached, dung fork in hand. "I need to muck out your stallion's stall, but the bastard won't let me in. That puffed-up squire of yours just smirked and told me to bribe him with apples." The man snorted. "That git! Bribe a trained war-stallion, and one that's at least quarter Meahr." He looked over to Firefoot's box admiringly. "And anyway the dimwit forgot to tell me, where to get apples from."

_How many orchards had there been in the Coomb before Saruman's orcs had burnt them down? _For a split second Éomer wondered where Erkenbrand had managed to get the cider from they had drunk at the Fords.

Éomer nodded to the stable hand and walked over to Firefoot's stall. _Bribe Firefoot to get into his stall! _He would have to have a word with his squire to make clear that he was to take the stablehands' requests seriously. What a difference that man was to Winfrid... With surprise Éomer realised that he missed the sensible lad who had fought so magnanimously for the stallion's respect. And yet he was relieved that the boy was not present with all the disturbing events and news. "I had better get him out of the stall, so you can muck it out without any problem... Bedgeat, isn't it? Give him a carrot afterwards, or even better a parsnip. He's not picky."

"I have some carrots I brought for the goat," Frithuhelm chimed in."She yeaned but the day before yesterday, and I wanted some treat at hand for her." Rummaging in the large wooden bucket beside the fodder chest, he produced a handful of carrots he obviously had stored in sand to keep them fresh. Handing them to Éomer, he smiled. "It will take some time till we have apples again."

"Some time!" The stable hand snorted. "There is not one fruit-tree left from here to the wizard's dale."

Frithuhelm shrugged. "We will plant new ones. Mind you, they burnt my orchard, hacked down every tree they could find, but they did not destroy my nursery. Probably did not realise what it was, seeing just some shrubs and twigs." He turned to Éomer. "I went there twice last year. The seedlings are thriving, and come summer I'll go back."

"Man, you're mad." Bedgeat shook his head. "What will you do there? The farm is destroyed, the fields ruined. And you have no animals save that goat."

"You lost your animals?"

Frithuhelm shook his head. "No, I left on time. Saw Saruman's orcs build a bridge over the Isen when I was on a hunting trip with one of the neighbours. I took my family and my animals and all things we could move to the Coomb." He shrugged. "But I had no fields and no stables here, and I had to sell my animals to buy food for my wife and child. I kept but one doe." A sad smile flitted over his face. "My wife had brought a flock of goats with her dowry and that doe was the first one to be born after our wedding. We survived the attack on the Hornburg, but my wife and son died from the coughing disease last winter. It was hard to go on, but the goat was heavy with young and needed to be cared for... "

Turning back to the stall, be went inside and soon reappeared, carrying a tiny white kid in his arms. "And this year she yeaned a doe-kid. And a white one. I take it as a token that life goes on." A grin appeared on Frithuhelm's face. "Even that Dunlending crosspatch liked her."

"Airik was here in the stables?"

"No." Frithuhelm shook his head. "I took the kid up to her room." Seeing his king's incomprehension he explained: "It seems the whole matter with that wizard hunting down Dunlending women and..." He stopped, visibly reluctant to go into more detail. "Well, it seems the grief made the little milk she had dry up for good, and she..." Frithuhelm grimaced, stroking the still hair-covered knobs on the forehead of the tiny goat where soon the horns would break through and it took him a while to continue. "She took it as some kind of token that she was … well, forsaken or damned or whatever. Simply stopped wanting to go on. Even stopped caring for the child. They had some goat milk to feed to the little one, but Lord Erkenbrand informed me earlier and I thought to take the goat up to her. The mother-doe, I mean, so Airik could appraise her udder and see that her child would be well fed, but Lord Erkenbrand said his mother would not tolerate a goat in the guest-rooms. So I took the kid." He chuckled. "And well I did, for being afraid the mite peed in the middle of the room. The floor would have got much wetter had I taken the doe."

Éomer cleared his throat to hide his grin. He thought it better not to enquire if Lady Egefride tolerated widdling kids. "And Airik liked it, you say? The kid I mean, not the peeing."

Frithuhelm shrugged. "I think she was rather surprised. I'm not even sure if she has ever seen a goat. Anyway, I told her to come down to the stables in the evening to learn how to milk the goat."

Éomer frowned. "I do not see why she should work for..."

Frithuhelm shook his head. "No, Éomer Cyning, you don't understand. She cannot feed her child, and that ails her. But coming here and milking the goat, she will provide her child with milk." A broad smile appeared on his face. "It's just a bit of a detour." The kid started to nibble Frithuhelm's sleeve, and smiling the huge Eorling stroked the tiny wattles below its chin until it nestled comfortably in the huge man's arms, seemingly falling asleep. "We need to care, Éomer Cyning, need the feeling that we are useful to the ones we love."

With a pang Éomer realised that this simple sentence summed up all his feelings and pains. He nodded, anxious to hide his sudden bitterness. _What use was he to the woman he loved?_

Turning to take the kid back to the stall, Frithuhelm smiled, oblivious to Éomer's discomfiture. "I'll go back as soon as it is warm enough to sleep under an awning. I'll go and care for my land. It fed my family and me when it was strong, and now it has suffered, just as I did. But it remembers me, needs my care. I have suffered and was on the brink to give up, but I'm strong again now and I will give my strength to my land, to heal it."

**ooo**

"Westu Éomer Cyning hál." Frithuswith's voice was firm, as she offered the welcome cup on Éomer's return to Meduseld, but there was a disquieting wariness in her gaze as he took the cup out of her hands. He sniffed. It was doubtlessly mead. Having drained the cup, he handed her the empty vessel and entered the hall, the housekeeper at his side as usual. What differed from the usual welcome was her silence as they strode across the hall towards the royal chambers. There was nothing of her usual communicativeness, no remarks about the everyday incidents at Meduseld, no gossip, nothing about the latest kitchen rumours. How many times had he felt bothered by her chatter? But now it seemed as if the large hearth gave no warmth to the mighty hall without Frithuswith's voice.

Éomer felt stiff and exhausted. The ride back to Edoras over the snow-cowered plains had been straining. Around noon the sun already had enough power to melt the surface of the snow cover, creating an icy pulp that froze over again during the colder nights, leaving a splintering crust through which the horses would break in the mornings, making the ride an ordeal for them, as the sharp edges would abrade their fetlocks. That reduced the time they could travel without doing harm to their steeds to little more than five hours a day. And it had been slow riding, the entire area between Helm's Deep and Edoras being knee-deep in snow.

He had been relived to learn on his arrival that the Éored had made it without too many problems, but what still worried him deeply was the thought that the East-Emnet might have suffered similar snowfalls. While they were used to cold snaps in the Wold, the plains near the Entwash were usually almost free of snow for most of the winter, allowing the herds to feed on dry grass and the hardy plants that even sprouted in low temperatures. A cover of powder snow was no obstacle to the horses, who would scrape it aside like the deer did to reach grazing. But they would not manage in snow that wet and heavy. And the first foals were due next month.

When finally entering his study, Éomer barely managed to suppress a sigh. He was home. Everything was like he had expected it to be: The wooden walls, shimmering in the glow of the peat fire, the candle burning on his desk... He paused. There were letters on his desk and at least one consisted of beige paper. Feeling his heartbeat in his throat, he reached for it, only to find it to be from Aragorn, bearing the Star of the North instead of the official signet of Gondor. Swallowing his disappointment, he skimmed the others: An official missive from Minas Tirith that had already been opened by Eáldread, a letter from Dol Amroth, a short note from Elfhelm. He put them down again, not inclined to deal with them right now. When he looked up, Frithuswith was hovering nearby, and there still was the worried expression in her eyes that made him feel uneasy.

He wished she would leave, leave him alone with his disappointment and longing that threatened to throttle him. Leave him to the poor comfort to at least touch Lothíriel's previous letters, smell the paper, the lingering aroma of almonds in the long empty bottle, to bury his face in the softness of the shirt she had sent him, she had made for him, worn for him... He needed something seizable, something he could feel, something that would stop his senses from floundering in a void.

But instead, Frithuswith offered her assistance. "Let me help you get out of your mail, Éomer. Supper will be set on the board in less than half an hour. There is hot water in your dressing room and there are fresh clothes laid out on your bed."

Wordlessly he nodded, already unbuckling his sword, and soon mail and gambeson were shed. He was about to go over to the drawing room, irritated by her still lingering, when she cleared her throat. "Éomer King, there is something you need to know." He turned, alarmed by the graveness of her voice.

"When you left, you..." She hesitated and then started again. "You probably forgot an embroidered shirt under your pillow."

_Lothíriel's shirt! _With four long strides Éomer was at the head of the bed, jerking the pillow aside. _Nothing!_ He turned towards Frithuswith. "What has become of it?"

She cleared her throat, avoiding his eyes. "I ordered the servants to change the sheets, and I only can guess it accidentally ended up in the linen laundry.

He stood dumbfounded. "And?" He regretted that it would have been washed, flushing the illusion of her smell away, but what other harm could it have suffered?

Frithuswith cringed. "Éomer, linen is soaked with ashes and boiling water..." She hesitated, giving him a glance of worried pity. "The washers only noticed that something was wrong when the boiling suds turned greenish. They then searched and managed to fish it out, but..."

"But what?" A cold lump was gathering in Éomer's stomach.

With a deep sigh, Frithuswith finally looked him in the eye. "Éomer, one can't treat delicate lawn like that, it... it shrinks and gets coarse. And silk is even more delicate. The embroidery... it breaks when put into suds and boiling water and..."

"Where is the shirt?" It was little more than a whisper, his voice coarse with agitation.

"I put it into your drawer, with the letters."

He rushed back into his study, tearing the drawer open. At first sight he did not realise that the second bundle beside the wrapped up doll held the precious garment. Hesitating he reached for it, reluctant to open the wrapping and face the damage that had been done. Sitting down at the desk, he put the bundle in front of him and slowly unfolded the enveloping cloth.

For the first moment he only stared motionless at the crumpled thing in front of him, refusing to believe that this was what was left of the delicate shirt Lothíriel had worked for him in uncountable hours. Had sewn and embroidered, thinking of him lovingly, had worn, dreaming of him making love to her. _This simply could not be! _His hand was unsteady when he finally touched the cloth. Where it once had been soft, gliding like a sensual sigh through his fingers it was now coarse and stiff. Clenching his teeth, he unfolded the shirt. It had shrunk but not evenly all over, leaving a twisted, crumpled mockery of a shirt. The beautiful green-golden hue had faded and irregular patches of a dull yellow were spread over the entire garment. Around the once rich silken embroidery the cloth bulged, the silken thread itself being cracked and in some places clotted, the symbols of the Mark Lothíriel had stitched so beautifully on hem and collar mangled beyond recognition.

He did not know how long he had simply sat and stared when finally Frithuswith's worried voice brought him out of his stupor. "Éomer, believe me, it was an accident."

He looked up, shaking his head. "No, Frithuswith, it wasn't." His hand clutched around the shirt, crumpling it further. "It was me, causing it, Frithuswith. Me leaving it thoughtlessly, eager to avenge my hurt pride. It was me."

Meeting her horrified eyes, he laughed mirthlessly. "Don't be afraid, I won't blame it on anybody. And now leave me alone."

**ooo**

_The crunching of the crusted snow echoed in his ears like the splintering of wood as his boots broke through the frozen surface with each step. It nearly drowned out the sound of his painfully ragged breath and the thunder of his heartbeat, drumming against his ribcage and filling his head with the pounding of galloping hooves. He trudged on, his limbs as heavy as lead, exhausted, nearly blinded by the white icy waste around him. His gaze fixed on his boots, he wondered for how much longer he would be able move his feet and plod on._

_There was no trail in the snow, and yet he knew his direction, felt drawn to it like metal to a load stone. He knew his aim to be somewhere ahead of him in the snow. His aim, his shelter, the only thing that mattered. He needed to reach the béowbur. _

_He nearly stumbled over the still forms lying across his predefined way. Panting he raised his head, opening his swollen and lymph-encrusted lids wide enough to muster the forms in front of him. It took him some time to realise what they were. Corpses. Six dead bodies in a row, one behind the other. Small corpses. Children. He knew them without having ever seen them before. Six boys not yet fifteen. They lay on their backs as if laid out for funeral, yet he could not see their faces, as if something obscured his eyesight. But he only too well saw the bloodied clothes, the battered skulls, where spear, axe and sword had hit them, bringing death where life had not yet begun._

_He swallowed. His fault. His responsibility. With rising panic he realised that he had no control over his body. His feet were moving on, one crunching step after the other. His feet would make him walk over the boys' corpses, his body being drawn towards the béowbur that was hidden somewhere in the deadly white. His entire being yearned to reach the granary, the only place where his body and soul would find shelter, and at the same time his mind recoiled from the atrocity he would have to commit to go there._

_Jump! The second the thought formed in his numbed brain, he put it into action. Time seemed to slow around him as gathering his last reserves he leaped over the corpses, landing staggering in the frozen snow just behind them._

_Throwing himself forward, he crashed into the snow, his outstretched hands breaking with a crush through the frozen surface. His arms gave way, and not able to hold the weight of his body, he fell face down into the snow. A flock of crows took wing right before him, croaking hoarsely. Raising his head, he beheld a grey bundle right in front of him, the object the crows had risen from._

_He pushed himself up into a kneeling position and realised that he was naked, his body cut and abraded by the sharp crystals of the crusted snow. The grey form was now clear before his horrified eyes. Another corpse, naked, the skin bluish-grey. Tiny, so tiny... a baby, the belly bloated with hunger, the limbs thin as sticks, the face a sunken-in triangle with two large hollows where the crows had hacked out the infant's eyes._

_He stared, unable to avert his eyes. His fault. His responsibility. His guilt. He could not bear the sight of the mutilated face any more and reached out with a trembling hand to turn the little corpse over. _

_And there it was. Right under the left shoulder blade of the infant's corpse it stood out, large as his thumbnail, dark brown against the grey of death: the mole, the signet of his line._

He woke abruptly, his own cry still ringing in his head, feeling his stomach cramp. Confused and disoriented he rolled out of bed, staggering in the dark towards the dressing room and the chamberpot therein, when the first wave of nausea assaulted him. Pressing his hand on his mouth, he reached for the doorknob, stomach acid and the bitter taste of gal filling his mouth, and after a second convulsion erupting through his nostrils, burning the membranes of his nose. He slumped down in front of the chamberpot, unable to lift his head, as spasm after spasm made him retch repeatedly. It took him some time until he was able to rise and move over to the washstand to wash his soiled hand and rinse his mouth and nose. He was covered in cold sweat and shaking all over.

Slowly he felt his way back to his bed, and then stopped, reluctant to climb back into it. Finding the candle on the bedside table, he took it over to the fireplace, and scraping away the layers of ash, he lit it in the embers of the half-dead fire. He closed his eyes, recalling the last images of his nightmare, the dead infant, bearing his mole. _Lothíriel had dreamt of a stillborn child... Could it be...?_

She had blamed her nightmare on her sister-in-law's complicated birth, had tried to explain it away. But could he do the same? True, there were elements in his dream he could link to events of the previous days, but that last scene? What if it was a vision, a warning sent by the gods? Was it not his responsibility to protect her? She who he loved with every fibre of his body and soul, she who had told him lost in reverie about the miracle of having her own child. Would he be the reason for her losing her child? Tasting the metallic tang of blood, as he bit his lips to keep himself from howling like some tortured beast, he knelt beside the fireplace, clenching his fists in stubborn determination. If he could but make her wish to have children come true by losing her, he would do so, even if it would break his heart.

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><p><strong>Annotations:<strong>

**Meahr: **(Rohirric/Old English)horse; Singular of Mearas, the famous horses of the Eorlingas that were only ridden by the king and his sons.

I assumed that due to the way the Eorlingas kept their herds, most probably some of the mares might have been covered by Mearas stallions. (If I were a herder, I would even sent my mares on heat over "with affectionate regards"! ;-D Probably Béma will strike me with lightning one of these days.) But I can imagine that steeds with a dash of the special blood would be sought after by the Rohirric nobility, and therefore I made Firefoot a "part-Meahr".

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><p>Many thanks to the ladies of the <strong>Garden of Ithilien<strong> and to **Ygrain33** for their help and encouragement.


	35. Chapter 35

Warning to all of you who suffered through the last chapter: Here comes another one without romance!

And huge thanks to all of you who stay interested, even without "snuggling". ;-)

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><p>Chapter<strong> 35<strong>

"My lords." Acknowledging his counsellors with a slight bow of his head, Éomer pushed the chair back and left the room, closing the day's session. For the fifth day since coming back from the Westfold he had sat closeted with his counsellors on matters of policy and economy for several hours each day, and he felt mentally drained.

The weather conditions had worsened over the last days, as it had grown colder and the newly fallen powdery snow now formed a treacherous layer on the frozen surface below and had been blown into large drifts by the strong winds at any obstacle in their way. Flexing his shoulders, Éomer strode towards the doors. He felt uneasy, missing the exercise of his usual rides. The training-grounds were inaccessible too, and sparring was limited to a small swept and sand-strewn area between the stables and the barracks and the distraction they provided had not helped much to ease his agitation.

He had to tell her... to write her... and he knew not what. He had made several attempts, filling vellum after vellum, only to put them aside after hours of painful labour, realising that he did not know what exactly he was aiming at. Not that it would make any difference if he knew. For days now no messenger had left Edoras, and already official missives to Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth were waiting to be taken south. He had even penned a short letter to Elfhelm and a much longer one to the Houses of Healing, enquiring after some remedy or treatment against the coughing disease. As the old messenger system between Gondor and the Mark had been revived with the disturbances in the south, couriers were positioned in a certain distance at farms and villages along the road, shortening the time a message would take to nearly half the usual time, but with the drifts blocking the road all that was of no avail.

The guards threw the doors wide for him, and he stepped onto the terrace. The situation had not changed during the hours he had been holding council. His eye was met by the same sullen grey sky, cold wind and snow-covered surroundings as in the morning. From the edge of the terrace Éomer looked out over Edoras below. The snow on the thatched roofs looked rather grey than white, streaked with even darker smears where the soot-mingled snow had partly melted. At some corners the drifts reached up to the low roofs, changing the silhouettes of the houses to bizarre shapes. In the lanes small paths had been cleared from snow and strewn with dirt and ashes to prevent slipping, but anyway everyone who could stayed indoors. The entire town seemed dull and dreary, ghostly in its hue of black and grey.

Éomer heaved a breath and exhaled, a cloud of white forming in front of his face. He should have written to her, even if the letter could not be sent at the moment. The sooner she knew... He swallowed, avoiding the conclusion of the sentence. He should also have written to Aragorn. He knew that his friend had done the only sensible thing, and he appreciated that Aragorn had taken the time to inform him personally and as a brother in arms and not as the King of Gondor and yet...

A grim smile played around his lips as his gaze wandered once more over the dirty lanes and roofs below. Muffled and dull in the strangling grip of winter Edoras mirrored his own mood to perfection. The headache that had troubled him throughout the hours in council was increasing, and for a flitting moment he thought about asking Frithuswith to prepare him some meadow-sweet tea, but he shrugged it off. She would be busy with the preparations for dinner, and anyway she seemed to be avoiding him since his return, and given his mood, he did not blame her for it. He twisted his mouth in a wry smile. At least she could not blame his headache on too much booze, as he had almost totally stopped drinking. Sure, he took his breakfast-ale, a tankard in the evening and the occasional mug of small beer, but he had avoided any additional cup, fearing the loss of control over himself. Never in his life had he felt that lonely and lost. He was glad that none of the women approached him, for he felt unsure whether he would not have lain with anyone just for the need to feel alive. It was like balancing on the sharp edge of a sword, and only utter concentration and self-control kept him from slipping. If he could have taken Firefoot for a decent hack, things might have been different, but as it was, he preferred caution.

He still slept uneasy, but his nightmare had not returned, and of his other dreams he remembered but fragments that made no sense. He had turned back to sleeping with Lothíriel's shirt close to his face after that terrible dream, for as much as the touch of the crumpled cloth tortured him, he felt like betraying her if he left it in the drawer of his desk. But he carefully hid it alongside her letters every morning. Those enticing letters that breathed her very presence. He had not read them again, fearing they would render him incapable of writing the inevitable letter. It was as if any joy of life was slowly draining out of him, while at the same time his efforts and achievements on behalf of the realm were making remarkable progress.

There being nothing else he could do, he had plunged into council-work and was slowly getting the knack of it, once he had started to bother. Road repairs in spring, the construction of a large fair- and market site close to the ford of the Snowbourn, the experimental planting of wheat, the supports for the Dunlending village that was to be provided or at least paid for from the King's treasury, all that had been successfully dealt with. He still left the details to his counsellors, but he had realised that by acknowledging their efforts and ignoring what did not please him at the beginning of a session, it was much easier for him to finally get his own point of view through than by opposing them from the very beginning. Eáldread the old fox obviously saw through his attempts but willingly supported him, only now and then unable to hide a faint smile.

The only thing that had really cost him dearly had been the passing on of the information concerning the process of affairs in Harondor Aragorn and Elfhelm had sent. And now the cursed weather prevented further news from getting through.

"You should have taken your cloak if you had planned to spend hours admiring the view, Éomer." His expression deadpan, Éothain stepped up beside him.

Éomer snorted. "Sure, and that's the reason why you yourself are wearing none."

Éothain chuckled. "I do not intend to stand out here fretting till my balls freeze off. Eorthwela would surely complain. And I dare say you will need yours come spring, so forget about it all and come in for a cup to flush down your gloominess and jealousy."

"I'm not jealous!"

Éothain shrugged. "Sure, and pigs can fly." Meeting Éomer's glare evenly, he shook his head. "Éomer, since you learned about the development in Harondor you have been as sweet-tempered as an obstipated dragon. Even Frithuswith is trying to keep out of your reach."

"So what? Have I neglected my duties? Have I vented my anger on someone? Have I pressed for unreasonable decisions." Éomer's voice was cutting, but his friend and captain was not one to be easily flustered.

"You know yourself that you have not. But neither have you had a smile for the serving lasses or a joke for the grooms. Éomer, you have not spent one single evening with your men, nor shared a cup with them..."

Grimacing contemptibly, Éomer squared his shoulders. "The Mark needs a king, not a jester."

Éothain rolled his eyes. "True, but the Mark also needs the living man behind the mask of the king, Éomer. I know you are miffed because you can't play with the boys, but can't you for once forget the warrior and admit that others can do that job as well as you? I know you wish to be there and lead the Éoreds to the Harnen yourself, but Eáldread is right, Éomer. With Aragorn taking the leadership the political consequences are different. And nobody could expect Lord whatever he's called to have nicked that plonker of a prince. If what Radhruin claims to have found out about Amrothos is correct at all. Nobody knows for sure yet, but Aragorn as the King of Gondor has any right to show up at Ethirlond to enquire after the whereabouts of one of his liegemen. And if he happens to have three Éoreds of the Mark at heel to emphasise his demands, so much the better. Béma's horn, Éomer! Aragorn was a captain of the Mark, serving under Théngel King. He speaks the language of the Mark and he knows how to command an Éored. As those stiff-arsed Gondoreans have probably learned by now."

"Have you finished your lecture?" Éomer knew that Éothain was right, but it did not make things easier. "I know all that, Éothain, and I can well judge Aragorn's actions for myself. I said in council that I deem them right, as did Elfhelm, remember? If Lord Aerandir really imprisoned Amrothos, it makes sense that Gondor's king himself turns up to demand his release. Even if it turns out to be true that Aerandir did so suspecting Amrothos a pirate or at least to have dealings with the corsairs. And it also makes sense that Erchirion went with him to identify his crackbrained brother should they really find him in Aerandir's dungeons. I know I would have been useless."

Éothain groaned. "Man, just stop pitying yourself. What kind of cavalry would Aragorn have, had you not sent enough Riders to the Crossings? Because you had positioned Éoreds near the Mehring stream there were enough Riders not only to man the Crossings but also to support Faramir's Rangers keeping a watchful eye at the northern flanks of that dratted mountains, lest some forces from Khand try their luck that way. You did more than Aragorn asked you to do and you did the right thing, so what are you wailing about?"

Éomer did not answer, turning his back to Éothain to hide his anger. They stood far enough from the guards to converse in hushed voices without being overheard, but he was wondering how long he would be able to keep his voice hushed if his friend continued like that. He heard Éothain's feet shuffle.

"All right, perhaps you missed one or the other skirmish..."

That was the last straw! "Just shut up, will you? Who tells you there was not more than skirmishes? Who tells you than Amrothos was still a prisoner in Ethirlond when Aragorn arrived there? What if he had been hanged for piracy in the meantime? What do you think Aragorn and Imrahil will do then?" He had swivelled round and stood now nearly nose to nose with Éothain who did not back up an inch. "And who tells you that Radhruin has really found him?"

Taking a step back now, Éothain thoughtfully scratched his chin. "That truly might pose a problem. But then, concerning that Radhruin... You see, after meeting the fop in Dol Amroth, you know that morning when..." Seeing Éomer glare, Éothain thought it better not to continue in his exemplification. "Oh, well, I asked around a bit to learn about him. My duty as the captain of the King's Guard. I was really surprised that everyone saw him as quite a capable captain and strategist, perhaps the best they have in Gondor, as far as the navy goes. Might become the Admiral General of their new navy even." Éothain chuckled. "Obviously that position was the only bone of contention between him and Imrahil's youngest son as otherwise they seem to have got on like a house on fire." He shrugged. "Most people I talked to were of Imrahil's household and therefore favoured Amrothos for that position, though that nutter's greatest dream seems to have been the recapture of Umbar. Prince or no prince, that bloke is raving mad if you ask me."

"What a nice couple of friends: the madman and the smart-arse." Éomer gave a lopsided grin. "But if Radhruin really managed to find his friend, Aragorn will have no choice but promote him and pass Amrothos over."

"Who knows. Might at least be better than having a maniac who risks the entire fleet of the realm to make his dream come true." His mien suddenly serious, Éothain locked on to Éomer's gaze. "Will you not tell me what ails you?"

Shrugging, Éomer turned to look out over the plains again. "No news. That's all."

Éothain cocked an eyebrow. "From Harondor and the Éoreds or from your princess?"

Éomer snorted. "Is it also your duty as the captain of my guard to poke your nose into my private affairs?"

Ignoring his friend and king's remark, Éothain grinned knowingly. "Don't worry, Éomer. Wait till the roads are traversable..."

Éomer gritted his teeth. The roads had been traversable until his return from the Westfold, and letters from Gondor had reached Edoras. A month ago Lothíriel had even taken the time to write to him in the commotion of her precipitous departure for Pelargir... And then their contact had come to a standstill. Why had she not written from Pelargir though she had promised to do so? Was she avoiding him? Was anything wrong with her? Was illness keeping her from writing? How many times had he turned these thoughts over and over in his head these last days, dreading to add to her grief by the letter he had to write? He shook his head. "Things are not easy for her, Éothain. I should be at her side, supporting and protecting her."

Éothain raised his eyebrows. "She is safe, Éomer, and she has her family to support her. You seem to forget that she is a Gondorean princess with at least two level-headed warrior brothers and that she is but your betrothed."

"I regard her as my wife."

Éothain was speechless for a moment, surprise written across his face. Then he gave a low whistle. "Is that so? I thought I had watched you close enough in Dol Amroth, but obviously I missed something."

Éomer groaned. "Can you for once use your brains and stop thinking with your prick? I did not lie with her, you moron." He was shocked by the intensity of the sudden wish that he had. He had to stop this talk or he was going to lose what little was left of his equilibrium. He had to write to her... and at the same time he wished he could just forget everything, sweeping her up in his arms. Perhaps he was reading too much into his dream. Had he not had nightmares before? And yet... Why had the dead infant bore his mole? Could that be anything but an omen, a warning? And if it was, was it not his duty to warn her, to spare her the pain and sorrow? … Lost in thought, he did not notice that Éothain was watching him intently, a deep frown on his face.

"Éomer, just tell me, could your mood have to do with that unfortunate shirt the princess presented you with?"

Startled Éomer stared for a split second, before he managed to control his features again and his friend nodded understandingly. "That might provide some trouble. Women are a bit tetchy when it comes to things they have given time and labour to. I once ruined a rug Eorthwela had woven, being sick all over it after a night out with the boys." He sighed, shaking his head. "But you should not take it as such a catastrophe, Éomer. The poor girl who mangled the shirt is still deadly afraid of you, though Frithuswith promised not to give her away."

"I never asked for her name and I don't blame her. I don't blame anyone. It was my fault." Éomer's voice was cold and dismissive as he tried to forestall further remarks.

Éothain groaned. "Éomer, don't you think you are overreacting a bit?" He raised his hands in a helpless gesture. "It certainly is a pity and perhaps it is your fault that it got ruined. But precious as it might be, it's a shirt, man, and if your princess loves you she'll forgive you. It's not like you killed your first-born... Éomer? Éomer?"

Heaving a breath, Éomer tried to ignore the pain that seemed to split his head. He heard his friend's voice as if from a great distance or muffled by a wall that separated them, and only after a while he realised that Éothain had grabbed his shoulders. Looking up, he met Éothain's worried gaze.

"Béma's horn, what's wrong with you, Éomer? You look like a whitewashed wall. Perhaps you had better sit down. Shall I get you some..."

"No." Éomer shook his head. "No, Éothain. The only thing I need now is a change of weather, and that is nothing you can give me." It was only then that he noticed the guards having approached, worried by their king's sudden pallor. Dismissing them with a motion of his head, Éomer turned towards the hall. He knew what he had to do now.

**ooo**

Carefully shaking off the fine sand he had strewn on the vellum to dry the ink, Éomer scanned what he had written for a last time.

_Hereby I, Éomer Éomund's son, King of the Riddermark affirm to accede to an annulment of my engagement to Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth. All covenants regarding the Princess' livelihood will be fulfilled as agreed upon in the marriage contract until she decides to give her hand again in marriage. Any expenses that were made on behalf of the Mark's profit and welfare through the access on the Princess' dowry ahead of schedule shall be refunded by me._

_Éomer Éomund's son, King of the Riddermark_

He only hoped it sounded official enough to keep her grounded should any of those conceited counsellors of her father's court try to intervene and cause her any problem. He regretted that there was no way he himself could break up the engagement and spare her the ordeal, but with his confirmation in the marriage contract not to put her aside, there was no possibility for him to demand the annulment of their engagement. So, as much as he hated the idea of placing her in an awkward position, there was no other way to help her avoiding a marriage that certainly would cause her grief and terrible loss.

Gathering all the different pieces of parchment that held his previous attempts to explain the situation to Lothíriel, he rolled them up together and sealed the entire role before slipping it into one of the leather tubes that were used by the couriers to transport missives. She would read them, and she would understand. Gritting his teeth, he tried to master his emotion, tired to convince himself he was doing what was good for her, was protecting her the only way he could, and then opened the door of his study, ordering the guard in the corridor to fetch his squire.

The young man appeared in no time and Éomer handed him the tube, together with two others, holding messages that were due south. "Take these to Lord Eáldread. As soon as there is a change of weather, an errant rider is to be sent to Minas Tirith." The young man shot him an insecure glance, but then took the missives and bowed. Deeper, so Éomer thought, than was common amongst the Eorlingas, but perhaps that was still due to the scolding he had received for his behaviour towards the stablehand at the Hornburg.

When the squire had left, Éomer remained stock-still at his desk, staring ahead with unseeing eyes for a while. He felt light-headed, his headache worse than ever when he finally rose and went over to open the window, only to find the frame blocked by ice. The moisture that had condensed on the crown-glass panes had leaked down over the frame and now it was solidly frozen. If he tried to force the window open he would probably break the wooden frames. He grunted. Certainly the situation in his bedroom was the same... But then he remembered the door in the solar that opened into the garden, and made for that room to get some fresh air without any gawking bystanders.

Stepping into the queen's room, he was surprised by the intensity of the daylight that caused the curtains to glow in a warm, deep yellow. His gaze scanning the cosy interior, he asked himself how he was to break the news that there would be no queen to inhabit this room... This and others... With a pang he thought of Frithuswith's tapestries in the nursery, and the feeling of failing was nearly making him sick. He breathed deep and squared his shoulders. Lothíriel had called him her husband, and as her husband his most prominent task was to protect her, no matter what come.

Taking the key from the peg beside the door, he let himself out and stopped in his tracks. A sharp, warm wind hit him, causing his loose hair to stream out wildly and tangle before his face and when he shoved his mane aside with both hands, turning into the direction of the wind, he looked into a big patch of clear blue sky that was speedily spreading over the plains. He blinked, and then he realised: winter-foehn. Now everything fell into place: his headache, the squire's gaze... He swallowed. _He was responsible for her and he had done the right thing._ The messenger would be able to leave the next morning.

He stood motionless, staring up into the ever-growing patch of blue. High over the White Mountains some small clouds could be seen, as if a careless goddess has strewn a handful of lentils across the impeccable fields of the sky. _He had done the right thing._ Winter-foehn, the god-sent Storm-Eagle was soaring over the Mark, the flapping of its mighty wings causing the frost to flee at its approach and the people of the Mark to rejoice. _He had done the right thing_. The gods were looking favourable at his land and people. He felt the strong wind tugging at his hair and clothes and closed his eyes, remembering the ancient myths. The Storm-Eagle had sunk its talons into the heart of winter, ripping it out and carrying the torn shreds to the ever-dark realms of the north to feed the ice-demons. He swallowed, trying to keep down the bitter taste in his throat as he felt the talons dig into his own heart.

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><p><strong>Annotaions:<strong>

**meadowsweet: **an herb containing salicyclic acid, the active ingredient in aspirin. It tastes MUCH better than the often used willow bark.**  
><strong>

**Ethirlond: **(Sindarin) ethir: mouth of a river; lond: port, haven A town of this name does not exist in LotR, nor does Lord Aerandir, but I thought it would make sense to have a larger town at the estuary of the Harnen.


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36**

He did not know how long he had stood there, but the sun had already sunk low when finally Ymma appeared to inform him that dinner was to be set on the board.

He ate, not tasting his food nor caring about it. He had done the right thing, he would carry on, and the Mark would prosper. As Lord Eáldread at his side sensed the king's mood and left him in peace, the meal passed almost in silence and was about to come to its end, when the guards opened the doors, admitting a mud-splattered man. He carried the distinctive satchel of the couriers over his shoulder. His heart in his mouth, Éomer fought to school his features as the messenger approached the dais and handed him the satchel, bowing low respectfully.

"Are the roads already passable?" Éomer felt relieved that he managed to keep his voice steady and casual.

The man shrugged. "I don't know. I'm stationed at Alward's farm, at the junction to Aldburg. I took over the message four days ago, but I only made it to Ymbhaga the first day and there I was trapped for two days due to the drifting snow. When I found at sunrise today that the wind had died down and there was at least a chance to see some of the road cairns, I set off." He smiled lopsidedly. "Seven hours from Ymbhaga to Edoras, my comrades will think me a slug, but I did not want to risk my mount."

Éomer nodded. "You did well not to overtax the horse. What are the conditions further south?"

"At least the courier coming from Beornheard's farm did not have too many problems, and close to the Mering they had no snow at all. But that might have changed."

Thanking the man, Éomer dismissed him, and the courier sauntered over to one of the lower tables, where a servant girl was already laying out bread and a plate of roast pork and kale for him. Éomer could not keep his eyes off the satchel on the table and found it difficult to resist the urge to open it at once and search its contents for an envelope of beige paper inscribed in that hand he loved and knew so well. But he lingered some more minutes, waiting politely until the old counsellor had finished his ale before he stood and retired to his study.

Once the door had shut behind him, he hastened over to the desk, emptying the contents of the satchel on its top. An official missive bearing the seal of the King of Gondor, another official one sealed by Lord Hurin of the Keys and a third one. Its shape and colour made his breath catch for a split second, but he almost immediately realised that it was addressed in Faramir's hand. Turning the letter to break the seal, he could not help a smile despite his disappointment. It bore Faramir's and Éowyn's signets, but his sister had put her personal seal in such a way that it slightly overlapped that of her husband, and he wondered whether she was indicating at pinning him down or at sitting on his lap.

It was not more than a month since he had received Lothíriel's last letter, and here he was, aching and hoping. He shook his head. What was he hoping for? There was nothing for him save doing his duty to the Mark... and to the woman he loved. It was useless to wallow in hope and self-pity. Sticking his penknife below the seals, he opened the letter and started to read. It was Faramir's hand the letter started in, and Éomer could not help thinking that the man's hand was a straight as his character.

_Dear Brother,_

_With great relief and joy I pen this letter to you as the dangers on Gondor's southern borders that have pressed on us have been eliminated surprisingly due to Radhruin of Pelargir's commitment and persistence. _

_I am not sure if any official missive or personal letter has already reached and informed you, as the king is still in Harondor, whence he betook himself as soon as he learned that Radhruin had discovered that Amrothos was probably held captive under accusation of being a corsair by Lord Aerandir of Ethirlond after Amrothos' vessel had been found wrecked on a reef north of the mouth of the Harnen. _

_Having already moved the Dol Amroth knights into emplacement further east on the banks of the Harnen, Prince Imrahil fortunately was within reach to identify his son and the arrival of the king dispelled the last of Lord Aerandir's doubts._

_It seems Radhruin has acted with utmost aptitude and care and thus not only found and rescued Amrothos, who is reported to be severely wounded, but also managed to convince Lord Aerandir through skilful negotiations and personal dedication to swear fealty to Gondor. Certainly the coming of the king aided Radhruin's efforts, as it must have impressed said lord highly, and as Aerandir is the most important lord of Harondor and his lands border Umbar for many miles , a steady alliance is certainly desirable._

_An attack of united troops from Harad and Khand on the upper course of the Harnen was fought back by Gondorean cavalry with but little losses on our side. The corsairs' hide-out, that Amrothos had suspected to be somewhere on the Umbarian banks in the mouth of the Harnen, was discovered by Radhruin who led a devastating attack on the pirates, leading three warships from Pelargir into the estuary of the river. Obviously the corsairs had planned to attack Ethirlond on the Gondorean bank as soon as Prince Imrahil's knights were involved in combat further east, thus cutting off any supply and support for Imrahil's troops. King Elessar himself led a contingent of Rohirrim into Harondor, securing Ethirlond from the landside. And what is more: not one of the corsairs managed to escape because the tribes in the hinterland of the hide-out seized the opportunity to avenge themselves upon the corsairs who had frequently raided the villages on the riverbanks for supplies and slaves._

_So far I have no official tidings of further details yet, but only Lothíriel's letter, informing us that her stay with us at Emyn Arnen will have to be postponed again, because she wishes to wait for Amrothos' arrival at Pelargir whereto Radhruin will take him by boat, having offered his friend his house to recuperate. Probably Prince Imrahil will also stop there upon his return from Harondor, though we do not know yet when that might be, and her mother, Lady Geliris, wishes to meet her husband and then to decide if they all will go to Minas Tirith, as had been their plans before Amrothos' unfortunate actions, or if they will return with Amrothos to Dol Amroth._

_In the end one even has to be thankful for Amrothos' escapade, as it brought both, Radhruin and the warships and King Elessar and the Rohirrim to the mouth of the Harnen in time to baulk the enemies' plans. I will return to the Crossings tomorrow morning where Marshal Elfhelm is in charge now, and I will forward further information as soon as I get any, but I suppose that you might have been briefed directly by Prince Imrahil and King Elessar already, though details are still a bit blurred._

_I agreed with Éowyn to leave the more private topics to her, as she decided to write, too (after only some persuasion). She is looking over my shoulder now and promising the most horrible things to me. _

There was a blotch of ink, and then the letter continued in the tongue of the Mark and Cirth in Éowyn's bold hand.

_My husband is a dolt, and I am an even bigger dolt for loving him._

_Brother, you know how much I dislike writing letters. Were you here I would make your ears ring with all the gossip that we are showered with, but to write it down is like chewing stones to me. We are fine. I can already feel the child move and I have put on weight considerably. If I continue like that, I will be as round as a mare in foal come March and probably not able to ride to Edoras anymore. Now Faramir is looking over my shoulder, and that man has the cheek to grin!_

_It is a pity that your bride cannot come to Emyn Arnen, I would have liked to meet her. Especially after Faramir told me that she is very fast at taking up languages and is very much interested in collecting foreign swearwords. I am sure I could have added profoundly to her collection._

_But certainly I can understand that she wants to meet her brother first, more though as rumour has it, that he is severely wounded. And probably also her parents will like to have her close for the short time that is left until the wedding. But perhaps they will all come to Minas Tirith. Faramir assures me that the healers of the town are without rival, so Imrahil's family might decide to have them care for Amrothos. _

_I have to admit I can understand Amrothos' reasons and notions though his actions were more than risky, and everyone frowns at him now, while on the other hand they are singing Radhruin's praise. But if you look at the facts unbiased, that man was just lucky, and that is the only difference between them. Had Amrothos' ship not foundered, they would have harvested the praise together._

_My dear husband shakes his head at my statements, but he is used to shaking his head, so that will not stop me from speaking my mind. And as he wrote all we know about the campaign in Harondor at the moment, I had better close my letter now._

_Your sister, Éowyn Éomund's Daughter, wife of Faramir of Ithilien and soon mother of a foal, considering the way that child of mine is kicking!_

_PS: And hug Frithuswith from me!_

_PPS: That little Westfolder you sent us is a true treasure! _

Éomer let the letter sink in and then read it again, trying to catch what was not said but hinted at between the lines. He was glad and relieved at Éowyn's obvious well-being, good mood and loving understanding with her husband. If anyone deserved happiness it was her. His little sister... He could not imagine her heavy with child. And very heavy according to her complaints. For a split second a weird idea shot through his mind. _What if she was carrying twins, two sons... an heir each for Ithilien and the Mark._ He shook his head at his flight of fancy. Éowyn would bite off his head should he as much as utter the idea to her at the moment, of that he was certain.

And then there were the news about Amrothos, or rather about Radhruin. Putting down the letter, he knocked his knuckles against his teeth. No doubt Aragorn would make him Admiral General of the Gondorean navy now. And the victorious captain would return the lost son and brother to the women waiting at Pelargir. Would they wait for him at his house? Or would they go down to the harbour, impatiently watching the berthing of his ship? And how would _she_ greet Radhruin, him who could now be certain to become one of the most important men of the realm?

The moment the jealous thought flitted through his brain, he dismissed it as nonsense. He could not imagine Lothíriel to be impressed by titles... But by prowess? And had she not said herself that Radhruin was... He hesitated. She had called him Amrothos' friend and an able and responsible captain. Surely those were reasons to admire a man, but to love him?

Putting the letter aside, Éomer opened the other ones. Aragorn's letter contained a detailed report, obviously written by the royal scribe, and Hurin's consisted mainly of a list naming the different items the Rohirrim had the right to claim as loot. Éomer snorted. If Gondor ever were to lack anything, it would most certainly not be bureaucracy. Shoving the two missives aside, he reached again for Éowyn and Faramir's letter, reading it for a third time while pacing his room, unable to sit idly any longer as his thoughts and feelings were in utter turmoil.

_He was an idiot to be jealous._ _Had she not shrugged off the fact that Radhruin's father had wanted him to marry her that morning in Dol Amroth? _ Her concentrated face at archery training came to his mind, her impish grin, when their horses collided, the easiness of their banter, those dark grey eyes, sparkling with laughter, the steady grip of her hand when she had pretended there already had been an agreement of marriage to get rid of Radhruin.

And why should he be jealous? Had not he himself told her to find someone else? Had not he himself suggested Radhruin in one of his hapless writs? She had a right to have children. Living, healthy children. And if he could not give her that, he had to keep away from her. And yet, the idea that she would share another man's bed, enjoy another man's passion...

Frustrated Éomer kicked the peat basket, sending the sods flying. Opening the window, he stared out into the night. He had to protect her, he wanted to protect her. And here he stood and could do nothing but try to explain the terrible reasons for his fear, and instead of solving the problem he had to pen sophisticated missives to enable the woman he loved more than his life to leave him.

And that was the only thing he could do. He closed the window again and put the crumpled letter on his desk, before he resumed walking. How long would it take the letter to reach her? How long would it take her to write back? And then the problems for him would only begin...

He did not hear the characteristic rap, and only when she kicked the door shut did he turn round to see Frithuswith, carrying a tray, her mien and bearing as resolute and brisk as it used to be before their unfortunate disagreement.

The sharp, fresh smell of mint rose from the steaming tea-mug, as Frithuswith put the tray on his desk. Beside the tea there was a small plate with a handful of rusks. "Stop wearing down the floor tiles and come over to have some tea." There was still a trace of uncertainty in her voice, though she tried to conceal it, which made Éomer comply to ease her misgivings.

Eyeing the tray doubtfully, he shook his head. "Frithuswith, I'm not sick."

The housekeeper only shrugged. "Drink the tea when it is still hot. I know you are not sick, but I deem it better some people think you are." She grimaced. "Éomer, everyone in Meduseld knows you puked your guts out the night you came back from the Hornburg. And you have not eaten or drunk with any appetite since. So let the people believe you're sick to keep them from asking."

Éomer could not but grin as he reached for the mug. "Yeah, and blame it on the Westfolders that the king upset his stomach."

"Exactly. But I would prefer you told me the truth, Éomer. You scared the living daylights out of Éothain today on the terrace, and later Ymma told me she had to address you twice before you noticed her." She eyed him up critically. "It wasn't just the shirt that upset you, was it?"

Looking up from the steaming brew, he shook his head. "I had a nightmare that night, that's all."

Frithuswith nodded her understanding. "Did you talk to anyone about it?"

He shrugged. "I wrote to her."

"Your princess?"

Feeling the old woman's keen eyes enquiringly on him, Éomer averted his head. "Yes. And I don't want to talk about it."

She did not say anything but stood pondering for a while before she cleared her throat. "I see. I'm sorry about that shirt, Éomer, I..."

He shook his head. "I told you it was my fault. I should have put it back into the drawer."

"You were quite single-minded that day." Even her irony did not suffice to cover the bitterness in her voice.

He grimaced ruefully. "You were right to serve me vinegar, Frithuswith. Had I listened to you, at least the boys' death might have been avoided."

"I'm not sure." The old housekeeper shook her head thoughtfully. "I don't think those Dunlendings would have accepted any help as long as they had any hope. That woman seems to really be a wild thing, if I can trust Éothain's tale."

Éomer gave a mirthless laugh. "She certainly is. Wild, strong and clever. Not someone I would like to have to deal with." He paused for a moment, taking another gulp of the hot tea, before he faced Frithuswith again. "It's her child I'm worried about. I want it to survive."

"It will. From what your men told me the little wildling thrives on goat's milk. So that should not be any problem. And for all his gentleness that Frithuhelm seems to be a no-nonsense man." She grinned. "Must be the name. But if you want to know for sure, write to Lady Egefride. She can read, can't she? And even if she can't she has a scribe …"

He immediately saw the chance to change the topic. "What about your own progress in reading?"

She blushed furiously. "Oh, Maerec the scribe says that I do quite well, though he also says that he has never taught anyone as old as me."

With an encouraging smile, Éomer shoved the letter over to Frithuswith. "Try. It's Éowyn writing." Putting his callused finger at the beginning of the passage Éowyn had written, he squinted his eyes. "Can you?"

It warmed his heart to see the old housekeeper blush and eagerly take the letter, spelling out rune by rune and then adding them up to form a word in a cumbersome way. Having finished the first sentence, she gave Éomer a doubtful glance. "Does she really call her husband a dolt?"

Hiding his grin, Éomer nodded. "She verily does. But you should go on reading to understand the situation."

Slowly but persistently Frithuswith ploughed through the letter, exclaiming now and then and asking for Éomer's affirmation of what she had read after each sentence. In the end her face was flushed and her eyes shone with excitement. "I'm so happy for Éowyn's sake, and for Winfrid's, too. The boy will find his way, mark my words. But Béma's horse, Éomer! I can read! I read my first letter... and I got everything right."

Éomer nodded smilingly. "The only thing that's left now is to try and write a letter, Frithuswith."

Shaking her head, she avoided his gaze and pointed at the small plate. "You had better eat. I'll know when I'm ready to write."

Obligingly he reached for one of the small rusks, and munching it he remembered when he'd had rusk for the last time before. On Amrothos boat, out on the choppy waters of Cobas Haven, when Lothíriel had fed him ginger-flavoured rusk after his fit of nausea. _What a trip that had been, and what a reckless and skilful sailor she had proved herself - His scipflota cwen - and yet not his anymore._ Intending to hide his sudden longing, he reached for a second rusk. It was strange how the simple fact of talking to the old housekeeper over a cup of tea had soothed him. Where he had been tense, aggressive and torn before, he now felt only sad and aching, the pain strangely dulled. For a split second he suspected Frithuswith to have drugged the tea but he could not think of any calming potion that could be masked by nothing but unsweetened mint-tea. Finishing the rusk, he flipped the crumbs off the desktop, and then turned to the housekeeper, stating what had come to his mind ever again those last days.

"I just cannot grasp how the shirt could have ended up amongst the bedsheets by mistake."

Frithuswith sighed. "Just due to folly. One of the maids found it when removing the pillowcase. She had never seen anything like that and so she called the others and soon there was a flock of giggling girls in the king's bedroom ogling the garment and... well I do not really want to know what they did and said."

Éomer decided he did not want to know either, though he could imagine only too well. A delicate, semi-transparent garment, richly embroidered, hidden under the king's pillow. Certainly they had thought it a woman's garment... He stifled a groan. Giving him a curious glance, Frithuswith continued.

"Anyway, when Ymma entered on her inspection of the maids' work one of the girls shoved the shirt quickly into the bundle of linen on the floor, lest Ymma scold them. That's the reason why Ymma never realised that there was anything like a shirt between the sheets. She later sent the washerwomen to collect the bundle and soak it... Well, the rest your already know."

He nodded. "I'll just have to accept it, Frithuswith." Giving her a faint smile, he added: "I suppose I'll call it a day and go to bed if only to strengthen your rumours about the king being sick."

She eyed him doubtfully, but then collected her tray and made to leave. "Good night, Éomer. And don't you worry. Certainly the messenger will be able to start tomorrow morning for Minas Tirith with that letter of yours to your princess. And with the speed of thawing, you will have an answer very soon."

He nodded, careful not to give away how much her words increased his pain. When she had left he put the two official missive aside. His counsellors would deal with them, and the next morning would be soon enough to hand the over. He did not feel like going back to the hall though it was still early and he was thankful for the excuse Frithuswith had offered him, but he knew that he would find no sleep going to bed that early. Again he scanned the letter. Where was she now? And what was she doing? The rusks had brought vivid images of their sailing trip to his inner eye, and he was only too willing to let his mind linger on them again.

_Lothíriel, staring at Mardil's approaching boat with furious determination... Lothíriel, clambering along the side of the precariously heeling boat to inform her brother at the tiller of her plans how to best that scum... Lothíriel, her face contorted with pain, the rope cutting into her wrist, and yet stubbornly refusing to climb inboard … Lothíriel at the prow of the boat, giving her own life into the hands of the wayward god of the likewise seas if only he helped her to destroy Mardil... Lothíriel, struggling in his arms, her fingernails digging into his skin as he held her, preventing her from leaping into the eddies of Aeglir Caragon, when she had thought Amrothos to have drowned._

He folded the letter to put it away. It was useless to try and fool himself. That last situation had been the only one when he had protected her. And even in that case he had protected her only from herself, no matter how she herself had seen it. She was strong and valiant... and reckless once she had set her mind on something. And he loved her for these traits.

He felt the heat of a blush crawl up his neck as the realisation slowly but inevitably manifested itself in his mind: Though he had warned her, had given her the possibility to get out of the engagement, deep inside, in the very foundations of his heart he hoped, and hoped desperately, that she would set his warnings at naught. He swallowed, the muscles of his jaws bulging as he gritted his teeth, his fists clenched in a futile attempt to control his shame and frustration. He would never admit it to anyone, but he knew it made no sense to fool himself. No matter how much he despised his hidden weakness, he hoped she would have the courage to face fate and decide to stay at his side.

He heaved a deep breath. It did not matter what he wished for. It was for her to decide.

* * *

><p><strong>Annotations:<strong>

Many thanks to **Lady Blue Jay** for helping me with the language.


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter 37**

In the end it took two more days till the roads were in a good enough condition for the courier to leave with a fair chance of reaching the junction near Aldburg in a day's ride. And they were already well into February when a messenger rode into Edoras, a packhorse in tow that carried two small but solid- looking caskets.

Éomer received the man in the hall, dinner being just finished, and all eyes were on the caskets that were put on one of the long tables. Bowing low, the messenger handed him two letters, a smaller one, sporting Aragorn's star and a quite large one, rather a folder, with Prince Imrahil's signet.

Éomer felt his stomach cramp. _So this was it, the moment he had to face what fate would deal out to him._ He felt light-headed and needed a moment to regain his equilibrium before standing up to leave for his rooms to read Imrahil's missive, so he reached for Aragorn's letter and opened it, his stony face not giving away his agitation.

It was but a short note in the tongue of the Mark, some of the runes leaning in strange angles as if Aragorn's hand had not been too steady when writing.

_Éomer, dearest friend and brother, _

_I know how you must fret, not having been with us, as we faced the enemy on the banks of the Harnen. And it grieves me not to have had you at my side on the battlefield and neither at the celebration of our victory. But at least some fuel for celebration I can provide. These flagons hold the finest Harondor brandy I have ever tasted – and you know I have had quite some years to do so. Share and enjoy!_

_Your brother in arms, A._

Looking up from the letter, Éomer met the curious looks of the people assembled in the hall, and an idea hit him that would provide him with an opportunity to read Imrahil's letter undisturbed. He motioned to Frithuswith. "Send for the mead cups."

Rising, Éomer walked over to the caskets and ordered two of the present to pry them open. In each one was a dozen stoneware flagons, carefully wrapped in straw, the stoppers sealed with wax. Easing the seal, he pulled the stopper of one and filled one of the small cups a servant had fetched at Frithuswith's order. The brandy had a slightly oily consistency and its rich, heady aroma caressed his nostrils. Slowly he raised the cup and sipped the brown-golden liquid, thoroughly rolling it on his tongue. He had tried quite a variety of brandies, Théodred having favoured the southern liquor, and at Cormallen he had emptied more than one bottle together with Aragorn, Imrahil and Erchirion, but this certainly was by far the best he had ever tasted. Nodding his approval, he passed the cup to Eáldread. The old counsellor first sniffed the cup before drinking and then smacked his lips appreciatively.

"What a drink! Certainly this is the liquid gold of the south."

Taking a bottle in each hand, Éomer turned to Éothain and gave him one. "Take it, and keep it to drink to your child's health, once it is born." Handing the other to Frithuswith, he raised his eyebrows. "This one you had better store, in case one of our Gondorean friends should visit us. And the rest..." He turned to the crowd in the hall. "This is truly a kingly gift, and we shall drink to the health of our victorious Éoreds. Frithuswith, distribute the brandy."

A roar of approval swept through Meduseld, and soon every eye was focussed on the women who poured the aromatic liquor, and after raising his own cup in a toast to the Mark, Éomer left the hall.

**ooo**

He got to his study with nobody save the guard at the door to the royal quarters noticing him. A candle was burning on his desk, and pulling it closer for better light, he opened Imrahil's letter. There were four letters in the envelope, each one sealed separately, one with Imrahil's signet, the swanship of Dol Amroth and three more sporting Lothíriel's. He stared dumbfounded, and not knowing which one to read first, he reached for Lothíriel's letters. Each of the beige envelopes bore a date, written on the front in greenish ink: Ringare 28th, Narvinye 5th, Narvinye 12th. _Had she written the letters on these days? _He decided he might get further information from Imrahil and therefore opened that letter first. Bracing himself to face the inevitable, he started to read.

_Dear Éomer,_

_Arriving in Minas Tirith from Pelargir, where I collected my wife and Amrothos, _

He stopped reading, closing his eyes for a short moment. _She had stayed at Pelargir!_ He felt something close to panic rise inside him. _Lothíriel had stayed in Pelargir, even after her family had left for Minas Tirith!_ Pulling himself together, he started to read again.

_Dear Éomer,_

_Arriving in Minas Tirith from Pelargir, where I collected my wife and Amrothos, I was more than surprised to find not only a letter you had lately sent to my daughter but also three letters Lothíriel had written to you during her stay in Pelargir. Enquiring why the missives had not been forwarded, I was informed by the custodian of my town house that I, as the princess' father not being available to confirm my consent, he had thought it fit and proper to withhold the correspondence until my return._

Éomer stared at the letter, his head swimming. _How many days had his letter been held up at Minas Tirith? Had Imrahil opened it?_ Nervously he scanned the next lines.

_I have to admit I sometimes find it rather demanding to keep my composure and am convinced that a display of some Rohirric temper would have done me good at that moment, though it might have had severe consequences for my custodian's physical integrity._

It was as if he could hear Imrahil speak these words: Witty, sophisticated Imrahil, skilled warrior and accomplished diplomat. _Rohirric temper!_ Éomer snorted._ Certainly that nitpicker of a custodian deserved a kick up his arse._ He read the next lines, and his heart missed a beat.

_I have already sent your letter ahead to Emyn Arnen, to where Lothíriel went directly from the Crossings of the Poros, where I met her upon my return from the Harnen. _

He blinked, and read the sentence again. No doubt: not only had she not stayed at Pelargir, she had not even been there._ Why for Béma's sake had she gone to the Crossings of the Poros?_ Eagerly he read on.

_I do not know what induced her to travel to the Crossing in the first place, but I learned that she at least did so with the acquired prudence, turning up there on the 13th of Narvinye accompanied by four mounted guards in the livery of Dol Amroth and demanding to be led to Marshal Elfhelm. I met her there a sennight later and was utterly surprised, not only at her being there but also at finding the men of the entire Rohirric forces from the captains to the kitchen boys her champions._

Éomer shook his head like a wet dog to clear his mind, but all he could think of was her, Lothíriel, proudly riding into camp. _What a woman! No wonder the Riders had been impressed. _Only somewhere in the back of his mind the nagging thought formed that it would near to impossible now to explain an annulment of the engagement. He did not want to think of it, not with the image of her glory before his inner eye. The next lines caused him to stand, his chair toppling over backwards without him even noticing it.

_Marshal Elfhelm told me she won great appreciation and renown by making a speech to the troops in Rohirric upon her arrival, but after a short exchange with the Marshal King Elessar assured me that I did not really want to know what she told them. Seeing the spark of mischief in his eyes, I chose to believe he was right, though there is no doubt that whatever she said earned her the wholehearted admiration of your men._

His eyes on the letter, reading the last passage over and over again, Éomer started to pace the room. _She had spoken to the Éoreds like a true queen. And in Rohirric! And Imrahil wondered why every single Eorling present had been smitten! _He found it hard to calm down enough to go on reading, his fantasy occupied with what she might have said, how she might have said it, her poise, her voice, the noise and smells of the camp, her black hair flying in the wind... He shook himself and went on reading.

_Instead of crossing at Pelargir, the Rohirric troops took the old Harad Road via Emyn Arnen and crossed the river at Osgiliath, which is much more convenient for the horses with the bridge having been rebuilt. As Erchirion rode with Marshal Elfhelm's troops, I deemed it fitting for Lothíriel to accompany him to Emyn Arnen whereto she desired to go, and where she will stay in the care of her cousin and your dear sister._

_Amrothos is in a rather poor condition, his left thigh bone having been broken during the ship wreck. He was taken directly to the Houses of Healing from the Harlond. We only hope that he will not lose his leg._

_My lady wife sends her regards, hoping you have not been too uneasy at not getting any news from your bride._

_Till we meet under happy circumstances I remain, with fatherly regards,_

_Imrahil of Dol Amroth_

Éomer stared at the letter, unable to believe what he had read. His mind boggled. She had not received his letter yet. Imrahil did not know about it. She had not stayed at Pelargir to meet Radhruin. And he could imagine her so vividly - riding into the camp at the Crossings, holding a speech that inspired his men. _His queen_. But what would she do if she got his letter? Those pages of desperate rambling, written in the heartfelt urge to protect her, to spare her loss and grief?

Reluctantly he opened the first of her letters. It contained a description of her voyage to Pelargir which had not been too smooth due to rather stormy weather, and the information that she had got more detailed news about Amrothos' and Radhruin's actions against the corsairs. All in all it was a clear and objective report, save for the last lines that expressed her wish for Amrothos to be found and her longing to be with him, Éomer, whom she named her husband in the closing sentence.

The second letter was much shorter, thanking him for his letter he had written before Yule but stating at the same time that she was too uneasy to write anything sensible as the news seemed too dire and the forces that were assembling south of the Harnen were more numerous than expected. She was plainly worried, but still her calculations concerning the approaching battle, the movement of the troops, the deployment of the Rohirric reserves from Anorien were deliberate and showed her knowledge and strategic abilities. As in the first letter, only in the closing lines her anguish shone through in a violent regret not to have given in to passion that afternoon in the shade of the plane tree.

Éomer heaved a breath, torn between admiration and fear. _Béma, if he was going to lose that woman! _Opening the last letter he found that it only consisted of some lines, and reading them he felt the world around him drop away and his breath catch in his throat. Swallowing hard, he read the note again.

_Éomer, _

_I'm writing this, already dressed for riding. Amrothos is believed to be imprisoned at Ethirlond, but it is not sure if he is still alive. Nothing is sure now, and King Elessar himself has taken command over the Éoreds stationed at the Crossings to lead them into Harondor. Erchirion informs me that parts of the replacement from Anorien have already arrived, and should the situation escalate further he expects you to come south and take the command over the Rohirric troops._

_I will ride to the Crossing of the Poros, and should there be war, and should you ride into battle, I will meet you there, for I will not let you go to war unblessed._

_Yours, body and soul_

_Lothíriel_

**ooo**

He woke, and he wished he never had. His mouth felt dry, and he wondered if his tongue had turned into a foot rag over night. Groaning he turned over to his side, but though he felt the touch of the pillow under his cheek, the sensation of turning did not stop. Reluctantly he opened one eye only to close it again immediately. His bedroom seemed unnaturally bright, and the beams of daylight were stabbing his aching head like incandescent daggers. His teeth started to chatter, and he pulled the blanket higher, only now noticing that he was covered in cold sweat. What the heck had happened to him? Why was he feeling so utterly miserable?

"Good morning, Éomer King. Amongst the living again, are we?" Éothain's jovial voice echoed like a Haradric war-drum through his poor head, and he wished he could hide under the pillows.

"Shut up and sod off." His voice came out in a hoarse croak, earning him nothing but a booming guffaw from his friend.

"Oh my, the king is feeling a bit delicate, is he? Open your eyes, Éomer. You can't veg out all day."

"All day?" Carefully Éomer made a second attempt to open an eye. "How late is it?"

"Around noon."

Éomer could see Éothain now, sitting on a stool by his bedside and watching his hung-over friend and king with a broad smirk. "How's your head, Éomer."

Éomer closed his eyes again. How was his head? Several expressions came to his mind, ranging from aching to feeling like a squashed pumpkin. He tried to sit up, and sank back into his pillows with a groan. The entire bedroom was dancing around him, causing his brain to pound. The shivering grew worse, and he vaguely felt another blanket being put on top of him, before he heard Éothain walk to the door and talk to someone in the corridor.

"I have ordered some mint tea. You need to drink, Éomer." Éothain's voice was more serious now, and after a while the captain of the guard repeated his question. "How's your head?"

"Crappy. Like a mûmak sat on my face." Actually it felt as if said mûmak was still sitting there, but he did not want to go into details.

"Are any of your teeth loose?"

"Eh?" Éomer blinked, and then passed his woolly-feeling tongue over his teeth. Everything seemed to be all right and he said so. Did Éothain really breathe a sigh of relief? Éomer felt too groggy to be certain. And he found it strange that his face was aching... to be precise his chin. But then he was aching all over. His left shoulder, his hip, all seemed stiff and bruised. But the only thing that really surprised him was the fact that he was not feeling sick in the slightest.

Sitting down again on his stool, Éothain cleared his throat. "Éomer, what do you remember of last night?"

_Last night?_ He remembered vaguely that he had been drinking with the men in the hall. Drinking that stuff Aragorn had sent. Brandy from Harondor. _Excellent stuff. But what did he remember?_ "We were in the hall... nay, I remember, I took the last two flagons and went down to the barracks to have a round with the guards there." _Béma, he must already have been dead-drunk then, as he did not remember if he had ever arrived at the barracks._

"You certainly did. And then?" Éothain's voice was wary.

"Dunno. The next thing I remember is that I seem to have woken up, though I'm not too sure about that." Another attempt to sit up proved futile, too. "Béma's balls, I must have been quite screwed."

Éothain nodded. "Pissed as a newt. We had to carry you up to Meduseld on a stretcher."

_A stretcher! _Éomer groaned. "Why didn't you just leave me to sleep it off in the barracks?"

"Because you were not in the barracks when you passed out."

"Not in the barracks?" Éomer was sure he would not like to hear what was coming next.

Éothain smirked. "No. Having emptied the better part of those flagons, you got the glorious idea to ride to Gondor and went over to the stables to saddle Firefoot. Luckily one of the lads was there besides old Beric and ran over to alert me when you turned up. Beric managed to keep you from entering Firefoot's box, for he feared the cantankerous bastard would keep anyone from stopping you, once you had got into the stall."

"I wanted to ride to Gondor?" Éomer did not remember anything, but even in his hung-over brain he found it quite plausible after reading those letters last night before he had decided to join in the general booze-up in the hall.

Éothain nodded. "When I turned up, you told me you wanted to go to Gondor, give Aragorn a piece of your mind, kill Radhruin of Pelargir and then ravish Princess Lothíriel who you claimed to be waiting for you at the Crossings of the Poros."

Éomer stifled a groan. "Who else heard me say so?"

They were interrupted by a servant entering with a mug of tea, and with Éothain's help Éomer finally managed to sit up. Leaning against the headboard of his bed, he carefully drank the tangy tea in tiny sips, before repeating his question.

"Oh, well, I don't know who you had been talking to before, but in the stables it was only me you spoke to. I was afraid Firefoot might cause trouble once you opened the door to his stall and so I sent everybody out."

Handing him the empty mug Éomer grimaced. "I see. And when did I pass out?"

"Oh, that was when you stumbled, trying to take the saddle off the rack in the stable aisle."

Éomer passed his hand over his throbbing jaw. "And I fell right on my chin?"

Éothain shrugged, his expression absolutely deadpan. "Quite a coincidence, isn't it?"

"Bastard." Grinning was painful due to the maltreated chin, but the grin still played around Éomer's lips as he slumped back into his pillows, already half asleep again before his head touched them.

**ooo**

In the end it took him until the early evening to be in a state to rise without feeling wobbly and shivering, and supper was the first meal he felt able to face. Ignoring the curious glances as he entered the hall, he took his place on the dais, surprised by the fact that he was not only tolerably well but actually hungry. He did not stay in the hall after the meal though, but returned to his rooms, eager to read Lothíriel's letters again.

Entering his study, he at once spotted the documents someone had put on his desk while he has slept off his hangover. And then he stopped in his tracks. On top of the pile he was expected to peruse and sign lay a beige envelope. Rushing to his desk, he picked it up. _Lothíriel's hand! _The courier must have arrived in the afternoon. Slowly he sat down, staring at the letter. _Only one day after Imrahil's letter had arrived... she must have written immediately. _He felt his heartbeat blasting against his ribcage. Slowly he opened the letter that held his fate, his future, his life. And then there was nothing around him but what she had to tell him.

_Éomer Éomund's son, _

_I have your letter in front of me and my brain still refuses to comprehend what my eyes read. How can you come up with such an idea, such a proposal? Mind you, if you were a Gondorean I would think it a cleverly constructed attempt to sneak out of an engagement that no longer pleases you._

_But alas I know better, know you to be true and open-hearted, noble without falsehood and conceit. Oh, Valar, I only hope that my anger lasts long enough to finish this letter to you, to give you a piece of my mind because sensing the pain hidden behind your words I feel torn and wish I could rush to your side. And yet I am not sure if I would caress or kick you. Probably both, you incredible man._

_You believe to have done wrong? You feel guilty because you did not listen to Frithuswith who warned you beforehand? Truly it is bitter to realize the enemy you fought and killed were children, and I understand that the boys' death disturbs you greatly, as well as the thought that perhaps others starved due to your stubbornness and wrong decision. Éomer, I cannot take this guilt from you, as much as that grieves me, and I know you would not ask anything like that from me, but I wish I could. But I can stand by you and help you carry this burden._

_Do not try to gainsay me. What would you do if it were the other way round? If I felt devastated? How did you behave on the battlements of Dol Amroth when I cried my guilt of Alcarien's death into your tunic? Do not tell me now that I am a woman and it is a man's task to protect his wife. Yes, if I were attacked by a villain, be it man, orc or vile beast, I would be grateful for your greater bodily strength, for your skill with spear and sword. But this is not about bodily protection, this is about care and understanding, about partnership, trust and love._

_Éomer, you have no right to send me from your side if you would not leave me out of your own will were I in your position. And if I understand your letter correctly you do not admit anything like that, quite the contrary. Do you deem my love for you weaker than yours for me? Have I ever given you reason to think me weak and fearful?_

_You believe you displeased the gods, fear that they will punish you, fear that my nightmare will come true? Éomer, the danger to miscarry, the threat of a child to die is there for every woman, for every parent. Should we all stop bearing children therefore? The Rohirrim call childbirth the women's battle... what would you think of a warrior who shunned battle fearing death?_

_You say I told you on the beach of Tol Cobas that I was willing to agree to an arranged marriage, to marry a man I did not love because I wanted children. Éomer, yes, that is what I said, but that was before I realised what it means to love and to be loved. Yes, I want children more than ever, want to experience the miracle to bear them, to give birth to them, to nurse them, but more than anything I want them to be your children, conceived in love and passion._

_And do not your people believe that strong passion will result in strong and healthy children? Where is your faith in Rohirric tradition now? Or do you doubt my passion for you? I for one cannot doubt yours for me, reading between the lines of your letter._

_You say you failed and the gods will punish you. If they do, how can I leave you to bear their wrath alone? And yet you say that they still are merciful, sending us our nightmares to warn us. Are you sure about that?I do not believe that every dream we have is Valar-sent, but that dreams rather rise from the depth of our troubled minds. But given the Valar sent them: why are they a warning? If you believe that the gods are that cruel as to punish a father's sins striking his offspring, why then do you not believe them cunning enough to send us these terrible dreams to test us? Us and our love and confidence in each other? _

_You tell me that due to the changed marriage contract you have no right to set me aside or divorce me, and I certainly thank the Valar for that, because you are an overprotective bonehead. How heartily do I agree with your sister in that judgement! And to advise me to leave you! Éomer, you overly noble idiot, I truly love you, but I am fuming with rage. What a condescending attitude! Mind you, I know that you did it because you love me and feel responsible for me and want me to be happy. But how can I be happy without you?_

_And to suggest I should turn to Radhruin because he is a reliable man! Éomer, he no doubt will become Gondor's Admiral General, he may be noble, handsome and admired by many due to his deeds during the war and now at the mouth of the Harnen, but are those reasons for me to choose him or do you rather think about him choosing me?_

_What am I, Éomer? An expensive piece of jewellery that can be handed over into another man's keeping? An extraordinary mare that can be put to breed with a different stallion? I esteem Radhruin as Amrothos' friend and as a skilled captain, but I am no ship for him to navigate and command!_

_He never cared for me, I was never more to him than his friend's sister, his proposal nothing but submission to his father's wish. You say that you see the political problems that will arise through an annulment of our engagement, that you feel bound in duty to your country and your people but that you would never allow politics to destroy my happiness. For Radhruin there is no difference between marriage and politics._

_Do you know how he pushed through his negotiations at Ethirlond? How he convinced Lord Aerandir to ally himself with Gondor and acknowledge King Elessar as his liege lord? He offered to marry one of Lord Aerandir's daughters, to assure him of Gondor's help in case of further threats from Umbar or Harad. Said lord has three daughters, and it goes without saying that Radhruin, the admired admiral to be, left it to the father to choose which one should be given to him in marriage. What is such a marriage but an exchange of hostages?_

_Oh, their engagement and more so their wedding will be splendid spectacles and affairs of state, and he certainly will perform his matrimonial duties and beget an heir on her, probably stopping any intercourse with her once she has born a son, and most probably she will be thankful for that. O Uinen have mercy! I feel like taking a rolling pin to thump some sense into your skull!_

_Éomer, this is Gondor: I told you so before. And there you came, opened the bird's golden cage and encouraged it to fly, only to come back as soon as the wind blows hard to tell it to go back into its cage because freedom can be dangerous and painful? No Éomer, I have felt the wind under my wings, I have tasted what true emotion might be, be it tender love or searing passion. I will not cower ever again, I will not shrink back into protected submission! And even if the Valar should have decided my downfall, I will laugh into their faces and willingly accept my fate if I have you at my side._

_You say you did not talk to anybody about your proposal that I should annul our engagement, and well you did. For I never will agree to such a self-torturing folly. But I tell you this: as long as your heart is true I will be able to bear what may come, no matter how bitter it might be. Open your heart to me, Éomer let me come into your dreams again, let me touch your soul, and let us stand side by side, facing whatever fate the Valar may deal out._

_Lothíriel, who you called your wife_

He sat, staring at the letter in front of him, and only when the letters started to blur did he realise that he was crying.

* * *

><p><strong>Annotations:<strong>

**Ringare: **(Quenya) approximately our December

**Narvinye: **(Quenya) approximately our January

Many thanks to **Lady Bluejay **for helping me with the language, and to **acacia 59601** for letting me use her swear-words.


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter 38**

"Béma's balls, stop pacing my room like a caged bear. You're getting on my wick. No wonder Eorthwela hoofed you out." Looking up from the pile of parchments he had been presented with by Eáldread, Éomer glared at his friend. For the last half an hour Éothain had been walking the space between the fireplace and the window, his face in a worried frown. Éomer shook his head. "Éothain, it's her third child, she knows what to do. Everything has been arranged, the other children are cared for, she has the company of your sister and of two of the best midwives in Edoras, so for Erce's love stop whining. If she says she needs some rest, then some rest she surely needs, and not an over-excited husband who jumps at every move of hers."

Éomer could not comprehend how his self-assured, easy-going and pragmatic friend and captain had turned into a nervous wreck of a man, biting his nails and being unable to sit in one place for longer than a few seconds. Éothain groaned. "Man, you are one to talk. I have not been present for the birth of any of my children. Have not even seen my wife in the last months of her pregnancy with all the skirmishes and raids these past years. And now I'm here and she sends me away. Says I disturb her."

At that moment someone kicked the door of the study, and then Frithuswith entered, carrying a large tray, holding bread, cheese and cold meats, a large jug and two tankards. She cast Éothain a side-glance, and shaking her head, she put the tray on Éomer's desk. "Make that dolt sit down and eat and drink, Éomer. And then give him some job to do or take him out to the taverns before he drives everyone mad." Turning to Éothain, she scolded. "Boy, you would not like to have her near were you fighting some horde of orcs, would you?"

"She is not fighting any orcs. She's giving birth to a child, my child." Éothain looked as if he was ready to bite her head off.

Totally unimpressed Frithuswith shrugged. "So what? That's her kind of battle, and she will fight it. You did your job putting it in, and now she has to get it out and who knows if she will think favourably of you whilst doing it."

Éothain stared at her in utter shock, and Éomer himself was uncertain how to respond to Frithuswith's statement. Noticing the men's reaction, the old housekeeper grimaced. "Éothain, she does not want you or the children around for she needs to concentrate on what is going to happen. She is not without assistance, as you know. And at the moment the only thing she needs and desires is rest. So let her rest. The stronger she will be when the labour starts in earnest. Don't worry, if she wants to have you near she will send for you. Now have a bite to eat."

Reluctantly the captain of the king's guard shuffled over to the desk and slumped down in one of the upholstered chairs. Reaching for a slice of bread, he jerked his head towards the letters in front of Éomer. "So what news is there from the Westfold?"

Éomer shrugged. "There's a list of what Sigward sent over to the village, and there's a letter from Lady Egefride I have not read yet."

"Lady Egefride?" Frithuswith raised an eyebrow. "You really asked her to write?"

"I asked her for information on that Dunlending wildcat and her child. But..."

"Then why don't you read it?" The old housekeeper's curiosity was more than obvious.

Éomer snorted. "Because you keep me from doing so." Grabbing the still sealed vellum, he held it out to her. "Do you want to read it yourself?"

Making herself comfortable in a chair beside the fireplace, Frithuswith shook her head. "No, read it out, so we both can listen to it."

Éothain nodded, absent-mindedly munching his bread, and breaking the seal, Éomer started to read.

_Westu Éomer Cyning hál._

_Sigward sends his regards. He left in the morning. I promised to him to speed on his list and news about the Dunlandish village. He had men cross the river after the snowfalls, carrying barley- groats, peas and field beans and some of the southern grain, too. He also gave them some lard and several pieces of salted pork. It seemed that the women still had some of the supplies left that your men had given them, which I deem a sign of caution and discipline. Two more villagers had died. A crone (but not Airik's mother) and a baby. Unfortunately the men did not understand too much of the Dunlending's gibberish and none of them speak the language of the Mark, so we do not know exactly why. But Sigward's men said there were no signs of the coughing disease._

_But the women made clear that they wanted more meat and also peas and beans to sow in their gardens. Sigward sent them a doe after a very successful hunt on the slopes of Trihyrne a week later and they were very grateful."_

Snorting into his tankard, Éothain doubled over with laughter. "Oh, they certainly were."

Raising his eyebrows, Éomer gave his friend a wry look. "And how do you know?"

"Talked to the bloke Erkenbrand sent." Éothain seemed to be incapable of taking the smirk off his face.

"And?"

Seeing his king and friend's frown, Éothain condescended to explain. "You see, Sigward had that hunt, and they did more than well. So Sigward decided the Dunlendings should also get some venison. Well, nobody was keen to go, because nobody wanted to miss the feast after the hunt, and to keep people from grumbling, old Sigward finally sent three young lads over the river to take the Dunlendings a doe."

Frithuswith frowned, as Éothain started to chuckle again. "And what's so funny about that?"

Containing his mirth with some difficulty, Éothain continued after having taken a hearty draught from his tankard. "The fun comes then. Seeing the lads and the doe, the women were all smiles and then the elder ones started to skin the animal while three quite young ones busied themselves getting the lads out of their hides, too."

"What?" Éomer and Frithuswith looked at each other, realising they had exclaimed in unison.

Relishing their bewildered looks, Éothain went into detail. "As the lads said later, the women took them to some kind of sweating hut, washed and groomed them, and then sort of spanked them with birches. Not painfully, mind you, and all the time making more than clear that they meant to be friendly. Finally they fed the lads some tiny pieces of the doe's roasted heart and liver, and then they became really friendly." Éothain couldn't help chuckling again. "The courier said the boys' ears were still glowing when they had come back to the other side of the river hours later, and some of the men that had not wanted to take the doe were really miffed when they learned about it. But Gamling says they might not have been treated that nicely. Seems the women thought it to be the boys' first kill, and for a Dunlending that means to become a man. Therefore they treated them like they would have treated their own lads. Gamling says they believe it brings good luck to be a young man's guide to adulthood. They even have a special word for it."

Frithuswith snorted. "There certainly are more stupid customs in Middle-earth than treating a lad nicely for a useful job he has done. Just remember how the lasses treated you two scoundrels when you came home from your first skirmish."

Éothain again doubled over with laughter and Éomer hid his chuckle in a fainted cough. _At least they had managed to distract Éothain from his present worries. _Smoothing out the vellum, he continued to read.

_The men were surprised to find the Dunlendings had salt of a good quality, but with none of them knowing the language properly they were not able to find out where they had got it from. They took a handful of it back to Sigward, and he showed it to me. It really is exceptionally good and would make an item worth trading for. I asked Airik, and she told me about a place where they dig it out of the mountainside._

Frithuswith nodded thoughtfully. "Lady Egefride certainly is a clever one. Good salt would be more than welcome. Perhaps we could arrange something through that Airik woman."

With a contemptuous snort, Éothain put down his tankard. "Don't count on Airik. The courier says she's a pain in the arse and still as gaunt as before. As if she doesn't trust Rohirric food."

Éothain's harsh judgement was affirmed by Lady Egefride's next lines.

_Airik certainly is a problem. Her child no doubt is thriving, and turning into a surprisingly beautiful little girl, but she herself is haughty and hurtful to everyone, save to Frithuhelm who she calls her brother, and surprisingly to Freawaru and her children who she supports in every way and even smiles at._

"Freawaru?" Éomer was not sure if he had ever heard about a woman of that name at the Hornburg, but the captain of his guard as always was able to fill this gap.

"A widow," Éothain explained. "Frithuhelm's sweetheart, I think. Saw her once in the stables. A nice woman, though a bit older than Frithuhelm. She has three children, and he seems really interested in her, if I read his behaviour correctly. But then there's Arild, her late husband's mother. Seems that woman is the Riddermark's equivalent to Airik. Saruman's scum killed her husband and son and destroyed her farm, up on the north-eastern banks of the Isen. She survived hiding under a pile of debris." Filling his tankard again, Éothain shrugged. "They had been warned by Frithuhelm, and her son had sent wife and children to the Hornburg, but the old harpy had refused to leave and insisted the men should stay and defend their own. Brainless old cow. And now she vents her anger on anyone who dares to cross her path. Not for all the gold of Scatha's hoard would I put up with such a woman."

Remembering the old woman Frithuhelm had been giving milk to in the stables, Éomer suddenly understood. He shook his head. "Frithuhelm is a good man, and she should be happy if her grandchildren got such a father."

Éothain grunted. "She certainly should, but sourpuss that she is, she demands her farm to be built up again by Frithuhelm before he goes and rebuilds his own orchard and farm. He downright refuses, and right he is, and I'm quite sure Freawaru would be more than willing to leave her behind, but Arild has a claim on the children as heirs of the land."

"Oh bugger it all. Heirs of what? Some patches of run-down land and the ruins of a farm?" Frithuswith grimaced. "Has that idiot not learned from what happened to her family?"

Éothain shrugged. "Some mother's have them, Frithuswith. Hopefully someone will shove her into some ditch and thus solve the problem."

Swearing under his breath, Éomer raked his hair. _As if there were not already enough problems without that woman pestering her fellow men_. Feeling the enquiring eyes of his friend and the old housekeeper on him, he went on reading.

_Airik spends every day doing needlework with the women, and she excels in working any kind of suede and pelt, but she is unwilling to teach her techniques to anybody. She is eager to learn spinning and weaving like we do though, telling me she knows how to do it but the Dunlendings' tools and techniques differ greatly. Her knowledge of the language has improved considerably, and I am sure she understands every word we say, but she refuses to talk to anyone besides me, Frithuhelm and Freawaru. I do not know what will happen if Frithuhelm really leaves in spring for his orchards._

_Awaiting your further instructions I remain... _

Grimacing, Éomer put the letter on his desk. "That Dunlending will probably shove Arild into a ditch, as you've put it, to enable Freawaru and her children to go with Frithuhelm."

"That would certainly endear her to a lot of people, my humble self included." Grinning, Éothain raised his tankard. "But perhaps you really should think about some solution before April, Éomer King. Old Egefride seems truly fed up with the vixen you put in her chicken house."

Before Éomer could answer, there was a knock at the door and then Eáldread entered, a broad smile on his face, holding up what seemed to be a letter. "A messenger from Minas Tirith has just arrived. All the other missives were official rubbish, as you would say, and can wait till tomorrow, but I thought this one should reach its addressee as swiftly as possible."

Éomer took the letter, surprised by its size and colour. It was distinctly larger than the ones he usually got, be it from Lothíriel or from Aragorn and it was white instead of the usual beige. The paper was strangely smooth and shining, though inclusions of fragments of fibres gave it a slightly uneven structure. The name on it was painted rather than written, the Cirth looking unfamiliar due to flourishes that had been added to the bold and straight runes. There was only one man he knew to be fond of such frippery and a look at the address confirmed his assumption.

"To Frithuswith, housekeeper of the Royal Hall of Meduseld." He grinned at Frithuswith. "Shall I read out this one, too?"

With the agility of a young girl the housekeeper jumped up and snatched the letter out of his hands. Chuckling, Éomer watched her blushing all over as she hid the letter in her apron with deft fingers. "Why, I never noticed you sent him a letter. When did you do it?"

Her blush deepening, Frithuswith cleared her throat. "Last month, right after you had made me read Éowyn's letter. I had known I could write, you see, but I had not been sure if I would be able to read something if I did not know what the words were supposed to be. I was afraid that I would not understand his answer."

Éomer smiled. "You will understand, Frithuswith, you will. And if not, it will be Calimab's fault because he does not know the runes properly."

Laughing, she made for the door. "I'll send up another jug, and if I have any difficulty I'll come and ask you in the morning."

**ooo**

In the end, with Eáldread's help, they emptied more than one jug, and when the old counsellor finally sought his bed they decided, for lack of a better aim, to take a walk around the wall that linked the watchtowers of Edoras. Both of them were drunk enough to not feel the cold of the night-wind but still sober enough to keep out of the taverns, thus avoiding a hangover the next morning.

Strolling along a narrow lane right at the inner side of the walls in one of the less reputable quarters of Edoras, they were just passing a tavern, when the door opened and a more than drunken fellow stumbled out into the lane. Swaying and singing off tune, he stopped at the corner of the house to relieve himself, and still fumbling with the laces of his flap went back into the tavern, leaving the door wide open. A broad strip of light streamed out into the lane, and with it came the heat and smell of the overcrowded room, a mixture of peat-smoke, alcohol and body odours. The patrons were audibly engaged in some kind of chorus song, the words and tune nearly drowned out in the general guffaw. After a short glimpse into the crowded room, Éomer and his friend were about to continue their way, when one of the patrons started to sing the next verse.

"Éomer is a mighty king

He's smiled upon by luck.

Went south and took a black-haired queen

For she knows how to fuck."

"No, Éomer!" Only when he felt Éothain's hand on his shoulder did Éomer realise that he was about to enter the tavern. Angrily he tried to shrug the hand off, but Éothain's grip was firm. "Don't make an ass of yourself, Éomer. Let them sing, for Béma's sake. Remember what we used to chant out on the plains. And no one of us had really meant to disrespect or offend."

With a last glimpse into the crowded room Éomer suffered himself to be led away by his friend. Éothain was right. Not only had they had a pot at every king of the Mark back to Eorl the Young, but even Béma himself had not escaped their joyful slander and bawdy abuse. Gazing sheepishly at his friend, Éomer shrugged. "I don't mind them taking the piss out of me, but they shouldn't include the princess."

"There are always things that we do mind, Éomer. But remember that party at Laguhám when we'd finished the gelding of the yearlings six years ago? It was you who sang about Erce's tits." Éothain grinned. "I'm afraid you'll have to get used to it. I don't want to know what the blokes sing about Eorthwela and me in the stables, but I know they are singing. And the higher the abused person, the greater the daring and the greater the fun. It's their way of showing affection."

As if to confirm Éothain's statement a single voice now rose over the din in the tavern, clearly drunken, but still loud and resonant: "Hail the Queen!

"Hail!"

"To the Queen!"

"To the Mark!" Mugs clinked, fists hammered on the tables, and then another voice rose in another verse.

"Éomer blows a mighty horn

To war he calls us all

But when the Mark's queen blows his horn

He stays put at the hall."

Side by side they continued their way, Éothain giggling like a tipsy lass, and Éomer's face like a thundercloud. And just as they were turning into the main lane that led up the hill, the beginning of a third verse reached their ears accompanied by a squall of jeering laughter.

"Éomer wields a mighty spear..."

Éothain stopped a few paces further up the lane, where another one branched off leading the back of the upper part of the hill. "I think I'll be going home, Éomer. It's already that late... she'll be sleeping. And I feel quieter now."

Éomer nodded. "I'll accompany you a bit further. I can take the garden-path from close to your house.

"You better had not. The moon is still too thin to give proper light, and I would not like you to slip. There has been done damage enough to your face lately." Éothain's chuckle was stopped by a friendly punch in his ribs, before they plodded on until they were within eye-shot of Éothain's house. A dark silhouette scuttled out of the yard gate, continuing along the lane towards them, and recognising his housemaid, Éothain approached her with a worried expression.

"Wifrun?"

The woman looked relieved. "Éothain! Good that I found you that fast. You wife asks for you. She thinks the child is due any time now. Sent me up to the hall to fetch you." Only now she recognised the king at her master's side and bowed low before turning round and hastening back to the house.

For a moment Éothain stood motionless in the middle of the lane. Éomer cleared his throat. "Shall I come with you?"

"No, Éomer." Smiling nervously, Éothain shook his head. "This is between me and my wife. But I thank you for your concern. Be cautious on your way home." He heaved a deep breath. "Béma's horse, my third child, and it's bloody well the first time I'm home." Shaking his head as if he still could not believe what was happening, Éothain strode to his house, closing the gate behind him.

It was not far to the gate that led into the gardens of the hall, and climbing the steep and winding path in the crisp night-breeze, Éomer looked up at the sky. A waxing moon, thin as a chip from a fingernail... He heaved a deep breath. The beginning of March, the last fortnight before his wedding. Where was she now? Most probably somewhere between Minrimon and Calenad in Anorien. Two more days to the border of the Mark and then it would take her one more week to reach Edoras. Their wedding would take place under a waxing moon, a good omen.

He had answered her letter, relieved and yet reluctant, still fearing the fate he might be binding her to, and he had received two letters in answer. Two more testimonies of her love and trust, odd mixtures of softness and strength, passion and blade-edged intelligence, telling him she was determined to tempt fate. And she had told him again that she wanted children... his children. He truly was a lucky dog. And he had to admit that he would not have known what to do had she decided otherwise. And that did not only concern his own feelings. Most certainly the Eorlingas would have stoned him had he called off the wedding after her speech at the Crossings.

A guard stepped into his way, demanding the password, only recognising the king when he answered. Woken out of his reverie, Éomer looked out over the dark garden below him.

Nine days... the first crocuses would be blooming, and those little tulips Éowyn had brought in from the plains, daffodils and those flowers that looked like little yellow suns Frithuswith was so fond of, the ones with that strange name... leopard's bane. He grinned. Éowyn had dragged him through the garden each time he had been at Edoras, pointing out new plants to him, and he had never quite understood her enthusiasm, but now, with Lothíriel coming to live in Meduseld he was thankful for his sister's obsession with gardening. At least there would be some flowers to welcome his queen.

And how would he himself welcome her, his fearless pirate? Would he even recognise her, cloaked and hooded? An odd kind of shame flooded him at his own fear. He remembered her so vividly, her face, her posture, her voice, and yet…Was it real what he remembered or just part of his imagination, the dreams that flooded him with sweet torture? Ten days until their wedding... The mere thought caused desire to flare up in him. Breathing deep, he shook his head. He would have to restrain himself to make things good for her. She deserved it. And more... Cursing softly he raked his hands through his hair. _Why had he never bothered to bed a virgin?_ Now he was facing his wedding night, wanting to please the woman he loved, he ached for in searing passion... and he was not sure what to expect. And what was worse, how to make it as good as possible for her.

From the day he first had realised the problem, he had been pondering it and finally had ended up asking Éothain, knowing for sure that Eorthwela had been untouched. But his friend had just shuffled his feet awkwardly and mumbled something about proceeding carefully. Not that he did not understand Éothain's embarrassment. It was one thing to talk and boast about the wenches one managed to lay for mere carnal desire and quite another one where the heart was concerned.

Slipping into the royal quarters through the side entrance, he made for his room, sure that he would not be able to sleep.

**ooo**

"A boy." Éothain's tired face nearly split under his wide grin. "We'll call him Aldhelm, after Eorthwela's brother who fell at the Black Gate." He put the brandy flask on the king's board. "Let's drink his health, Éomer King."

Soon they were surrounded by well-wishers, and the flask passed from hand to hand, everyone taking a hearty draught, before it was handed back to Éothain. Squinting one eye, he checked its content. "Almost empty," he said cheerfully, shoving it into Éomer's hand. "Come, Éomer, down with it. On your turn to father a child! Hail the Mark!"

Éomer was about to comply with his friend's request, but facing Éothain, his tired but overhappy mien, he stopped. _Would there ever be that deep a happiness for him? _The laughter and giggles ebbed away, as he did not raise the flask as required, and all of a sudden his mind was made up. He was not going to sit at Meduseld like a hibernating badger! With a thud the flask came down on the table. "Frithuswith!"

His bellowing made the servant who was about to put the porridge on the board jump. Out of nowhere the housekeeper appeared, her face in a frown. "Frithuswith, prepare provisions."

Her frown deepening, she asked: "For how many?"

Éomer grinned, and turning to his squire who stood beside his chair he ordered: "Twenty-four of my guards and the Éored of my household to get ready for departure. And you," he jerked his head at Éothain, "are to stay at Edoras this time. That's an order."

Rising, he took the flask. "Eorlingas! The King of the Mark is riding to the border to welcome his bride. Hail the Queen!" Under thundering applause he tilted the flask and drained it, handing it back to his flabbergasted friend. "Help me don my mail, Éothain. If I leave within the hour, I can make it to the Mering stream before the arrival of the royal entourage from Gondor."

* * *

><p><strong>Annotations:<strong>

I imagined the letter Calimab sent to Frithuswith to be written on rice paper. Certainly something like that was to be had in Minas Tirith, and I think the old peacock would not forego the chance of a little extravagance. ;-D

**Many, many thanks to** **Lady Bluejay for helping me with the odds of the English language and saving me from embarrassing myself.**


	39. Chapter 39

**Chapter 39**

_They made it! _Reining in his stallion, Éomer looked over the valley that sloped down to the bank of the Mering stream. Less than half a mile ahead it purled across the road, slowing where its bed widened in the flat stretch of the valley before it again gained speed, rushing through a wooded ravine further down to the north before it finally emptied into the many-armed delta of the Entwash. South of the ford the oak-clad skirts of Halifirien rose gently, until higher up on the steeper slopes the oaks gave way to pines, while the immediate banks of the stream were covered with thickets of willow and alder. The shadows were already lengthening, but still there was no sight of the entourage coming from Gondor. One of the scouts Éomer had sent ahead sat on a boulder near the ford, his mount eagerly feeding on the tender sprouts of the willows. Seeing the Éored, he stood up and waited for the Riders to approach.

"One more hour and they will be here," he grinned up to Éomer, keeping a respectful distance from Firefoot. "Anlaf is waiting behind the next bend and will give a timely warning."

"Enough time to clean up horses and men." Éomer made Firefoot swivel round to face his Riders. "We'll wait here. There's time enough for a quick bath and a check of gear and tack. I want the Éored to look their best."

More than one Rider grinned or made some lewd remark as they fanned out along the banks of the stream, but all were eager to wash and groom, and when little more than an hour later the standards of the King of Gondor and the Prince of Dol Amroth appeared on the other side of the stream, a phalanx of one hundred and forty-five well groomed horses and Riders awaited them.

The moment Aragorn nudged his horse into the water to cross the stream, Éomer raised his horn. Loud it sounded, bellowing its challenge, and the Eorlingas took up the signal, blowing their horns till the valley echoed with their fierce cry.

From the banks of the stream to the slightly higher point farther along where Éomer awaited his guests, the Riders flanked both sides of the road, forming a guard of honour for the arriving Gondoreans. Accompanied by his standard bearer, Aragorn approached, followed by Prince Imrahil and Princess Geliris, a haughty looking soldier flying the colours of Dol Amroth at their side. And behind them rode Erchirion and the woman Éomer had been longing for these last seven months. With the people riding in front of her shielding her partly from his sight, he could only catch a glimpse of her riding outfit, sporting the typical Dol Amroth blue and it needed all his will power to follow protocol and greet the king of Gondor first.

"Welcome to the Mark, Aragorn, King Elessar of Gondor." Bowing slightly but staying mounted, Éomer addressed the leader of the entourage.

When he reciprocated the greetings, Aragorn's eyes twinkled with mirth, and for a moment it looked as if he would dismount to greet his friend and brother in arms. Éomer forestalled him. "Don't dismount. Not half an hour from here my people have prepared camp for you and they certainly have the resources to make you feel much more welcome than my words can."

He welcomed the Prince and his wife with a polite bow, shared a grin with Erchirion, and could not suppress his nervousness when he finally made to address Lothíriel. She sat proudly, her back straight, her head held high, her posture showing no sign of fatigue at the end of a day spent in the saddle. Her face bore a polite smile, as she tilted her head to return his salute, and he felt rebuffed by her display of cool politeness. But when she raised her head and their gaze locked, all his disappointment and irritation vanished at once. With a sudden pang he realized how nervous and vulnerable she was, despite her aloof demeanour, and without a second thought he nudged Firefoot forwards and reached out to take her hand. For a split second surprise showed in her features, and then her mouth curved in a smile, but what touched him most was the warm sparkle that all of a sudden lit those grey eyes and made his heart leap. Squeezing her gloved hand with affection, he smiled at her before he returned to Aragorn's side at the head of the entourage, and flanked by the King's Guard they rode on while the Éored of the king's household fell in with the rearguard.

After little more than a mile they reached a place where the mountains formed a nearly circular valley between the ridges of two wooded foothills. The back of the glade was formed by the steep drop of the dark mountain wall, moist from a streamlet that plunged over the sheer face of the wall to fill a small lake at its bottom before it reached the outlet that emptied towards the marshes on the other side of the road. The valley itself was covered in last year's heather and bracken, but close to the banks of lake and stream already the first young green of spring could be seen. The entire valley was alive with people bustling around to make the king's guests welcome. And more than all his future queen. Some tents and pavilions had been put up and near to the lake cooking-fires burnt while in the middle of the glade trestle tables and benches were set up to receive the arrivals.

As soon as the approximate travelling speed of the entourage from Gondor had been known to the Eorlingas, they had checked out the areas the travellers might reach for adequate camp sites, preparing what would be needed to give such a large group of people what comfort could be had outdoors. Looking over the scenery before him, Éomer felt proud of his people's efforts. The site was beautiful and practical at once and a side-glance at Aragorn's face confirmed the Gondorean king's satisfaction.

Boys ran up when they rode into the valley, and having dismounted, Éomer turned towards Aragorn, to welcome his brother in arms properly. Clasping their forearms in a warriors' embrace, Aragorn gave him a big grin, and then slapped his shoulder, praising the site in Rohirric. Smiling Éomer turned to greet Imrahil and his wife, the former embracing him, patting his back, while the Lady Geliris smiled and pulled him close when he took her hand to kiss it, softly pecking his bearded cheek. Éomer was surprised, and so certainly were the other Gondoreans, but the quick looks Imrahil and Aragorn exchanged made clear that they were in accordance. Knowing the former Ranger's dislike of pompous court affairs, Éomer found it difficult to suppress a grin. Obviously Aragorn had found an accomplice. But as much as he enjoyed having his friends near he regretted that it prevented him from helping Lothíriel dismount. Erchirion had assisted his sister, and now they stood side by side, while stable-hands led their horses away to be groomed, fed and watered.

For a moment Éomer simply stood and stared, drinking in the sight of his future queen before he realised his boorishness. He started to walk over to her, his eyes never leaving her face, and that face then lit up. Not in a smile, for her lips hardly curved, but in something deeper, something that softened her features and darkened her eyes, causing her pupils to nearly merge with the slate-grey of her irises.

He never knew how she ended up in his arms, her hands firmly around his midriff, her face buried into his shoulder. He could not but hold her, his arms encircling her. He well realised he was wearing mail and was careful not to crush her against him, but to his utter surprise this urge was not what was foremost on his mind. For all the heated desires that had filled him so often at the mere thought of her these last months, now that she was here, in his arms, the wish to protect her pushed out any other feeling. In some lost corner of his mind he realised that they were standing in full sight of the entire entourage from Gondor, her parents, her brother... and he found he could not care less. She had stepped into his embrace, and there he would hold her as long as she wanted him to. Pulling her a little closer, he lowered his head, resting his cheek on the crown of her head. Wind-tussled hair, yet silky-soft to the touch in the places of his skin that were not bearded. Warmth... Warmth and the enticing smell that was her, faint but unmistakable under a layer of horse and something fragrant that reminded him somehow of the oranges she had sent.

He had not realised that he had closed his eyes, holding her, nor did he know how long they had stood, wrapped in the solid presence of each other, when finally someone clearing his throat rather forcefully close to him brought him out of his enchantment. Looking up, his gaze met Imrahil's, the Prince's mien not giving away any of his feelings. Lothíriel raised her head but made no attempt to step out of Éomer's embrace. Quite the contrary, one of her arms stayed in a rather possessive way around his midriff as she wiggled around to face her father. It cost Éomer all his willpower not the let his joyful pride show openly._ His pirate!_

The corners of Imrahil's eyes crinkled in a smile. "As much as I regret to interrupt you, children, there are some people waiting for you." With a jerk of his head the Prince motioned towards the three female figures standing in front of a small group of musicians with drum, flutes and fiddle, obviously waiting to greet Lothíriel.

Éomer blinked. He had not expected anything like that. True, he had given orders to make the Mark's future queen welcome, but he had thought about providing food and shelter, hot water to wash away dust and sweat of a long day's journey. But there could be no doubt that the people of the Mark were about to give their future queen a ritual welcome.

And suddenly he realised how this must look to the Gondoreans, was able to see his own people with the eyes of the foreigner, and he was proud of what he beheld. A girl, not older than perhaps six, a woman in her early thirties, and a crone, representing the people of the Mark. Tall and sturdy they stood, open-faced and clear-eyed, the girl's and the young woman's flaxen hair gleaming in the rays of the setting sun, while the crone's braid shone in immaculate white, thin with age, but still hanging down to her belt. They all were clad in their finest, the traditional dress of the Riddermark: a green sleeveless kirtle over a dress of white wool with close-fitting long sleeves, gathered around the waist by a broad woven belt in different hues of red, green and gold. While the girl's dress was unadorned, the women showed off their jewellery: solid chains of silver adorned with lugged coins, precious stones and pearls of multicoloured glass and amber, hanging across their chest between two clasps on their shoulders. And both of them proudly displayed the insignia of a married woman, knife and key, fixed to their belts.

They were giving Lothíriel the Willcumian, the offering of water, bread and salt, the traditional welcome a bride would receive the morning after the wedding, before she took over responsibility for the household. Éomer found it difficult to hold back his grin. They were receiving her as if she already was his wife. Officially Lothíriel was not Queen of the Mark yet, as she would not be crowned before he declared the consummation of their marriage the morning after their wedding. But with tales of her announcement at the Crossings of the Poros having spread like wildfire through the Mark with the homecoming troops, the farmers and herders were obviously judging things differently. And they were making their expectations more than clear, having selected a visibly pregnant woman to give bread to the new queen. He wondered if Lothíriel knew. A quick side-glance into Aragorn's grinning face made clear that at least Gondor's king knew all too well.

"Go to them, Lothíriel. It's your welcome." Whispering in her ear, he let go of her, feeling joyful and bereft at the same time. He had no time to muse over this contradiction, because the little girl stepped forward, raising a beautifully carved cup made of birch wood to Lothíriel.

"Keepers we are, soul of the land. Water we offer, life's kindler."

The sacred words sounded strange in her childish voice, but even those who could not understand the words spoken in the language of the Mark were touched by the child's seriousness. Thanking her, Lothíriel took a sip, and after a split second of hesitation, handed the cup to Éomer, who emptied it in one draught under the approving murmurs and nods of the Rohirrim before handing it back to the girl.

Now the woman offered a small bannock. "Keepers we are, soul of the land. Bread we offer, life's bearer."

Tearing the bannock in two, Lothíriel offered one piece to Éomer with a brilliant smile, and Éomer saw more than one Eorling nudging their neighbours with a big grin. When they had eaten the bread, the crone held up a small wooden bowl with salt.

"Keepers we are, soul of the land. Salt we offer, life's sustainer."

Lothíriel looked a bit lost, obviously not knowing what to do, but the crone smiled. "Just dip your finger in the salt, Hlaefdige, and lick it off."

Smiling, the princess obliged, and when she dipped her finger a second time into the bowl, raising her salt-coated fingertip to Éomer's lips, her smile visibly turned into a grin. _Béma, the woman was challenging him in front of the entire entourage! But who was he to yield to a challenge?_ Looking into her eyes, he slowly licked the salt off her fingertip and then, before she could even think of drawing it back, sucked it into his mouth. Her eyes widening in shock, she tried to pull the digit back, but he clamped his teeth down on it, soft enough not to hurt her, but still too strong for her to pull her finger out of his mouth without some struggle.

She blushed furiously, but instead of lowering her gaze, she raised her chin and squared her shoulders, her smouldering eyes promising revenge. Smiling, he set her finger free, and taking her hand in his, he kissed her knuckles. "This is Rohan, Hlaefdige min."

The Rohirrim around broke into rapturous applause, and then suddenly the women started to sing the ancient blessing, the drum joining in, and then the flute, searing high over the voices until in the chorus the men joined in the singing and the fiddle took up the theme, repeating it with frenzied speed.

With the last tune, a group of simpler clad women came up to lead Lothíriel and the other ladies of the entourage over to a pavilion near the stream to refresh themselves before dinner, while others busied themselves laying the trestle tables that had been put up in the middle of the glade. Soon the kings of Gondor and the Mark sat down amid their nobles to enjoy the meal while servants bustled about in the fringes of the wood to erect the various tents.

The served meal was simple but much to Éomer's liking, and as they would do out in the herder's camps, the women did not serve the single dishes in a specific succession but simply put everything their pantries could offer on the boards, so everyone could take what he liked best. Sitting at the head of the main table, Éomer had Aragorn at his right and Lothíriel at his left side, her family and some of the highest ranking Gondoreans and Rohirrim sharing their table. While the general topic of conversation was the events concerning Harondor and the assault on her borders, the present assault was on the food in front of them, and with no small pride Éomer saw more than one of the Gondoreans reach for a larger portion after first having tried the unknown dishes carefully and in some cases even reluctantly.

Certainly Erchirion knew nothing of reluctance. Praising the cooks' skills in broken Rohirric, he vigorously worked through every dish on the tables, and Éomer found it difficult to suppress a grin, noticing how eagerly the women were to refill his cup, bathing in the sun of Erchirion's brilliant smile.

The plates were piled high with roasts and different cold meats, cheese, vegetables of all kinds and a variety of sauces. On a special plate, decorated with spring flowers, the first boiled eggs were arranged, cut in halves and surrounded by small bowls holding spicy dressings to go with them. And on every table fresh bannocks smelled enticingly. But Éomer's favourite clearly was the soup that simmered in large flat bowls over hot plates filled with charcoal. It was creamy and viscid, taking its flavour from the dried mushrooms it mainly consisted of, garnished with all kinds of finely chopped fresh herbs. He was already well into his second fill, when he saw Lothíriel eye the bowl.

"Try it, it's delicious." Holding the filled spoon before her lips, he smiled at her encouragingly and was delighted when she raised her brows approvingly having tasted it.

"It's called Fyrngéar and lengter," he explained. "Fyrngéar referring to last year's mushrooms and lengter to the spring-herbs. Together with the cooked eggs it's the traditional dish to celebrate spring."

Smiling, she asked one of the servants to fill a small bowl for her, and watching her eat it with obvious pleasure, Éomer regretted not to be able to go on feeding her. _Though why should he care, as from an impartial point of view they had already violated nearly every point of protocol?_ He was silently grinning to himself, when Lothíriel raised her eyes. Seeing him smile, at once a spark of mischief kindled in her eyes, and scooping up the last spoonful from her bowl, she held it out to him. "I'm sorry for having deprived you of a spoonful of soup you obviously like very much, my lord. So let me reciprocate the offer."

He would have kissed her there and then, had not the fit of laughter made any other reaction impossible. Still chuckling, he slurped the offered soup, feeling nothing but light-hearted bliss after months of duty and responsibility.

As soon as the meal was finished the ladies retired, much to Éomer's regret - he would have liked at least some words in private with his future queen. The men stayed around the camp-fire, and it was only after quite a considerable amount of ale that everyone retired to their respective tents. Strolling over to his, Éomer could not help a grin, as he recalled the faces of some of the Gondorean nobles accompanying King Elessar and Prince Imrahil. Both had praised the ale, stating that they preferred it over the wines their provisioners had brought with them and ordering that only ale should be served that evening. He knew that at least as far as Imrahil was concerned it was a blatant lie, but obviously the two of them were having the time of their lives pulling the leg of some conceited nobles. Not that the ale had not been really good. And it would help him to sleep.

In fact it did not. Hours after his squire had started to snore softly in the vestibule of the tent, he himself still lay on his cot, staring into the night. She was so near... so incredibly near. How good she had felt in his arms... How solid. Not like in one of his passion-fuelled dreams. She was really there. And she would be there the next morning, sharing breakfast with him, smiling at him, challenging him and make him do stupid things. He was not sure if she knew about the meaning of the Willcumian. He had better talk to her in the morning, lest it led to some kind of misunderstanding and embarrassment. Had he actually embarrassed her, clipping her finger? It had been so bloody tempting. Morgoth knew how they saw such behaviour in Gondor. He could not care less in general, but no way did he want to hurt her feelings. But at least she must have realised that things had be insinuating... Could he not expect Beortraed to have told her about that ritual? He knew he could not. Beortraed was a good scribe, perhaps an even better teacher, given the way she spoke the language of the Mark... The way she spoke the language of the Mark...

His thoughts started to drift off. _Lothíriel in front of the troops at the Crossings... her voice ringing out clearly, using the correct words, but stamping her personal signet on them by her way of pronunciation._ There was nothing of the northern lilt in it. Clipped, hard consonants, clear vowels... her speech was like her character, clear and bold. And yet it was the language of the Mark, understandable to every Eorling. _Béma, had he been there he would have ravished her there and then!_

Frustrated he shifted to lie on his side. The entire camp was silent and the noise of the falling water could be heard like a murmuring lullaby. Was she sleeping? Or was she lying sleepless like him? Thinking of him? Through the days of his ride to the border he had imagined what meeting her again would be like, had dreamt about kissing her, leading her off into the woods that covered the slopes of the foothills... And here he was and had not even spoken a single word in private to her. How would she react if he just walked over to her tent now? He knew it was nonsense to even think about visiting her, let alone making love to her in a tent in the middle of a camp, and it certainly was nothing he would ever confront her with, but his mind started to follow that idea, and not surprisingly, his body followed suit. Cursing under his breath he realised that there was no chance of him getting any sleep if he did not take matters into his own hands. He sighed. Béma, there was an entire week before him with her that close, that bloody tempting close... He would have worn the skin off his palms by the time they reached Edoras.

* * *

><p><strong>Annotations:<strong>

**kirtle: **medieval gown, worn over a shift or chemise, often worn with a surcoat of a different material over it.

**willcumian:**(Old English/Rohirrric) to welcome

**hlaefdige:** (Old English/Rohirrric) lady

**fyrngéar:** (Old English/Rohirrric) last year

**lengter:** (Old English/Rohirrric) spring

**Many thanks to the ladies of the Garden of Ithilien and especially to Lady Bluejay for helping me with the language.**


	40. Chapter 40

**Chapter 40**

To Éomer's utter disappointment the next morning the ladies had their breakfast in their tents and only joined the men when the entourage was about to leave. He was feeding Firefoot the accustomed morning treat of a carrot, when he saw Lothíriel leaving her tent, carrying her blue cloak over her arm, and what he saw made his breath catch. Instead of the typical Gondorean riding outfit she had worn the day before, a garment that had covered her slender frame to the tip of her riding boots, she was now clad in a sleeveless overcoat of finest brown suede over a long-sleeved woollen tunic, both richly embroidered with traditional Rohirric motives in gold and red. The overcoat was split to allow comfortable riding and hung a little lower than mid-thigh, showing a firm knee likewise clad in brown suede over polished boots. _Clad like a true Eorling! _

Firefoot was forgotten as Éomer strode over to her, and her eyes shone with delight when she realised his admiration. "It's a present from Éowyn." Lothíriel grinned. "She said you would certainly like it."

"Did she?" His voice sounded slightly breathless to his own ears. _Béma, what a sight! If he only could show her how much he liked her outfit... and how much more what was inside it!_

Seeing him stare, Lothíriel chuckled. "She said that your eyes would pop out of your head once you saw me."

Grinning, he kissed the knuckles of her hand. "Why do I have the feeling that I don't want to know what else that sister of mine said about me?"

"Because you are an intelligent man?" Lothíriel offered.

He laughed, drawing her hand to his cheek and then softly nuzzling her palm. "I don't know about intelligent, Love. Some people would say I have been rather stupid lately. But I certainly am a happy man."

Before she could answer, her parents and the king of Gondor walked up. Letting go of her hand reluctantly, Éomer greeted them and then it was time to start another stage of the journey to Edoras.

**ooo**

Only at lunch-break, when they were walking the horses over to a stream while the servants laid out the meal, did he have an opportunity to talk to her without being overheard, though still not in true privacy, as they were in sight of many scrutinising eyes. Their mounts finally stooping to drink, he was thinking about how to raise the topic of the ritual and his behaviour the night before, when Lothíriel addressed him, a slight reluctance in her voice.

"I want to ask you something, Éomer."

"If you want to, why don't you do so?" He felt guilty at his joy at seeing her blush and hurried to ease her obvious discomfort. "I'm sorry, Lothíriel. I certainly did not aim to embarrass you." He sighed with a sheepish grin. "You just seem to bring out the worst in me, Dear, making me behave like a lovestruck youth."

She raised her eyebrows in mock- reproach but could not help a grin either. "Oh, it was not really that _you_ embarrassed me, it was rather..." Her voice petered out as a fierce blush crept into her face.

_So she was starting the talk about the night before herself. Well, at least that would put him in the more comfortable position of knowing what to react to. _He prepared himself for her accusation. "Rather what?"

Lothíriel shrugged. "I don't know how to phrase it." Looking into his eyes, she grimaced. "Writing my thoughts and feelings is so much easier, than vocalising them."

_Writing easier! Writing about feelings... _He shook his head, remembering that less than seven months ago he had written the first letter in his entire life that contained a word about something like emotion! Taking her hand, he brought it to his lips. "Lothíriel, you are certainly the most surprising woman I have ever met. And the most challenging, too."

She drew back her hand, giving him an uncertain glance. "Oh, well, as concerning challenges: I did want to challenge you yesterday, but I am not sure _what exactly_ I did in the end."

"What do you mean?" Despite his intention to talk to her openly, he felt alarmed.

She squared her shoulders, and folding her hands behind her back, she spoke as if reciting a text she had learned by heart. "That's what I wanted to ask you about. I know about the different attitudes in Gondor and Rohan concerning various things. From yours and your people's reaction I guess it was not just a simple welcome. And it seems that what I did held a certain message, though I do not know which one. But I would like to know what it was, to keep me from further embarrassment."

Éomer cleared his throat cumbersomely. "Did not Beorhtraed tell you about the rituals of the Mark?"

She looked up, her face showing plain surprise. "Why, he certainly did, but..."

Éomer sighed. That scribe was the closest thing to a shy Eorling. He had certainly mentioned the Willcumian as part of the coronation, not as a ritual that welcomed a wife as the keeper of her husband's bloodline. And no way the scribe would have told her to share the offered items with him. Had she known what she was doing, not even his pirate queen would have been _that_ bold, of that he was sure. Or would she? He realised he wished she would.

He tried to approach the problem carefully. "Well, what happened yesterday normally takes place after a wedding."

"After a wedding? But..."

He could see the budding understanding in her eyes and decided to come out with the plain truth. "It is the people's morning gift, their way to acclaim you as their queen."

"A morning gift? But..."

_Béma, how could anybody blush that profoundly!_ But as much as he liked the sight of it, he could not help feeling guilty and wanted to get over with the problem at hand as fast as possible. His next statement was much blunter. "Lothíriel, try to understand. You cannot go riding into an encampment the evening before a possible war, declare you will wait for the king should war break out in earnest to bless him before riding into battle and expect a people as pragmatic as the Eorlingas not to draw certain assumptions."

"You mean..." Her eyes widened, as realisation set in.

He raised his hands in frustration. "Lothíriel, in the Mark, a betrothal is rather something like a preliminary marriage, an engagement that still can be cancelled should the people concerned find they do not agree. Certainly a lot of Rohirrim, except a few very close to me who know otherwise, more or less expect us to have lain together."

For a moment she chewed her lower lip, considering what he had just told her, and then she nodded. "So that is why..."

"Why what?" He felt slightly alarmed at her pensive tone, though he was thankful that at least her blush was slowly ebbing away.

When she finally answered him, her voice was even and matter of fact. "The women who served me last night were obviously convinced you would visit me during the night. I was not sure if I understood them correctly, as I thought that could not be. I mean I..."

He suppressed a groan, realising he had to be even more outspoken. "Lothíriel, as I told you, this is a ritual that is performed the morning after the wedding. Have you not talked with anyone about those rituals?"

She shrugged. "Beorhtraed advised me to talk to Éowyn about the rituals concerning the wedding, but she laughed and said that you had a tendency to change rituals if it got into your head to do so. But she added that if I wanted to get the Eorlingas' love and admiration I simply had at least to try any food or drink they offered to me, and if I wanted to make you happy I should share the offered things with you."

_Wonderful! Could not his outspoken sister have remained outspoken in this case? _He drew a deep breath. "Well, Dear, taking the offered water, bread and salt, you stated that you are satisfied with my... performance, and sharing the offering with me, you signalled that you wished our... intercourse to be continued."

Her mouth opened, but then she shut it again, shaking her head in disbelief. It took her some time to regain her equilibrium, and then to Éomer's surprise and relief she started to chuckle. "Uinen's sweet mercy! That's why King Elessar grinned like a maniac! I only hope he won't tell father."

He could not but pull her close, regardless of the watching people. _His Scipflota Cwen! _Chuckling, he kissed her forehead. "Don't you worry. He won't. And I'm not sure if your father might not even guess but prefers not to know, Dear. _He_ no doubt is a very intelligent man."

**ooo**

They reached Aldburg late in the evening of a rainy day, their horses steaming in the cold drizzle as they rode into town. Certainly everyone would welcome the shelter of the hall and warm and dry beds, though Éomer thought there was little reason to complain. It had been the only cold and wet day, and even that one had been rather moderate without much wind and stronger showers. It had just been tediously drizzling all day long, making any break as uncomfortable as the ride itself. But all in all the journey had been splendid and he silently congratulated himself on the great idea to meet his bride at the border.

After their talk about the Willcumian, he had not missed out on any chance to talk to her. Erchirion had teased them mercilessly, as they had been riding side by side, talking about anything that came to their minds, from the plants at the roadside to Gondor's contracts with Harondor. Getting her back on her brother, Lothíriel had then changed to the language of the Mark, which Erchirion still did not understand well, but good-naturedly he had only laughed and finally left them in peace. But naturally that had not meant that they really had ever been alone.

He heaved a relieved breath at the thought that soon they would be able to have all the privacy he yearned for, after a week with more than two-hundred people milling around them constantly. That had been the only drawback of the journey, and one that had bothered him increasingly. For the more he had talked to her, laughed with her, spent time simply riding at her side, enjoying the feeling of her being close, the more he had wished for a moment of intimacy, a moment to hold her, kiss her without any witnesses. And certainly she had felt the same, would she have written those tempting little slips of paper he had found on the pillow of his cot every evening otherwise?

He had talked to others, too. Not only to Aragorn and Imrahil, but also to some of the Gondoreans who he had found surprisingly open-minded, not a small number amongst them having been at the Black Gate in the war. And there was old Hurin of the Keys who he respected highly. The old man was accompanied by his youngest son and his daughter-in-law and had visible problems coping with the exertion of the journey, though they proceeded slowly and by far did not spend as many hours in the saddle as the Rohirrim normally would have. And there had been Erchirion, though his friend seemed to be more than content to have some time to talk to his mother, pointing out special landmarks to her and informing her about everything he had learned about the Riddermark during his stay at Edoras.

The Lady Geliris. Éomer suppressed a grin. Béma, despite all these voluminous Gondorean garments that woman sat her horse like a true Eorling. And as soon as the news had been spread about that she was breeding horses back in Dol Amroth, every Rohir who could at least muster half a sentence in the Common Speech had addressed her in obvious admiration.

"Éomer?" They had reached the large yard between the hall and the stables, and Lothíriel's voice woke him out of his pondering. Looking up he saw her face under the soaked folds of her hood, and he could not but admire the colour the cold had teased forth on her cheeks. A single raindrop rolled down the bridge of her nose, causing her to blow at it visibly annoyed. _How he would have liked to kiss that drop away. _Bending over to her, he told her so in a hushed voice, relishing in the blush it called forth.

And then the moment of intimacy was over, as Marshal Elfhelm and Lady Hrodwyn stepped up to welcome them to Aldburg. The mead cups were served and everyone was ushered into the hall, servants taking the wet cloaks and offering mulled cider, before leading the guests to their respective quarters for a change into something dry before dinner was served.

Though he tried not to let it show, Éomer felt a surge of discontent and unease. Gytha had not been present at the welcome of the future queen. Neither at the serving of the welcome cup nor in the ancient hall. Was she ill? But then would not her grandparents have told him? And if she was not, where was she? How could she neglect her duty thus? Angrily he doffed his mail and wet garments. He would have to talk to Hrodwyn. It was time that his daughter left her childish notions behind.

They were about to take their seats at the high-table on the dais, when Gytha finally made her appearance, her damp hair and the fact that her dress was unadorned hinting at the haste with which she had made herself at least presentable. Yet she greeted the guests with impeccable politeness in the Common Speech, curtsied with remarkable grace and gave sensible and polite answers to any remarks the guests made. Éomer pressed his lips into an angry line. Could she not have done all that the moment their guests had arrived, and created a much better impression that way?

"Don't be angry, Éomer." The soft voice of Lady Geliris caused him to turn. Her face was serious, but her dark eyes were soft and friendly. "She's still young. Just try to see her for what she is, and not for what your fatherly pride wants her to be." He opened his mouth to protest, but shut it again. She was right. And the smile that spread over her face showed him she knew. "Mind you, I had this talk with my husband, too, when at the age of fourteen our dear daughter chose to capsize her boat the very afternoon we were expecting Lord Denethor at Dol Amroth."

Only too willingly he let himself being drawn into a story about Lothíriel's various pranks and mishaps, but during the meal his unease returned. Every time he looked in Gytha's direction, he found her lost in thought, absent-mindedly shoving the food around on her plate. Lothíriel placing her hand on his wrist made him realise that he had been staring, even ignoring the women at his side. Turning to her, he tried to smile.

"I'm sorry, Lothíriel, I'm just worried about her demeanour." He shrugged, feeling uncomfortably clueless. "I don't know what is going on. I have never seen her that thoughtful and..."

"It seems to be a characteristic trait of your House, Dear. She looks very much like you did at our first breakfast together in Dol Amroth. Let me talk to her after the meal, will you? Perhaps me addressing her will ease some of her worries."

Éomer frowned. "Worries?"

Smiling, Lothíriel shook her head. "Éomer, she is your daughter. And more, she's on the brink of becoming a woman. And there you come, presenting a woman that, according to what she might fear, will not only take her place in your heart but also give you children that you might love more than her."

"But that's nonsense!" Only when some people around them turned in his direction did he realise that he had spoken loudly. Lothíriel shook her head, giving no heed to the staring people. "To you and to me that might be nonsense, but not to her. She depends on you, Éomer, on you and your love for her."

"But I do love her, Lothíriel. I do and I always will."

Smiling, she nodded. "I know. And therefore let me talk to her. Give me some minutes before you join us, and you'll see she will relax."

He shrugged. "Do as you deem right. But what you claim does not explain her being deliberately late for your welcome."

"No," Lothíriel agreed. "But who tells you that she was late deliberately?" Seeing his doubts, she explained. "One sometimes is reluctant to face certain things, but out of a feeling of duty would not dare to avoid them. Well, and then things happen. One forgets, or stumbles..."

"Or capsizes," he added with a grin.

She snorted, but nevertheless nodded her consent. "I would never have dared not to be present for Lord Denethor's arrival, but obviously something was there in the water that knew about my reluctance to meet him." She shook her head, lost in thought. "I was always scared being near him. He made me kind of freeze on the inside."

Éomer stroked her hand. "Forget about him, Lothíriel. He's not there anymore to scare you, and if he were I would not allow him to do so."

She chuckled. "No, you certainly would not. But don't get me wrong. He never gave me any reason to fear him, and from what father told me, he was a most able Steward and strategist. It was simply as if we children did not really exist for him." She sighed, squeezing Éomer's hand. "But then nothing seems to have existed for him but the idea of Gondor and her safety and glory." Her face turned sad. "I believe that even Boromir, whom he claimed to have loved more than anyone, he only loved as a guarantor of Gondor's future. But let's not dwell on the past."

Nodding silently, he raised his cup to her, but for the rest of the meal they sat with their hands clasped.

Most of the travellers were rather eager to retire after the meal, and while a small group of men gathered around a table close to the fireplace, Lothíriel went forth to address Gytha, who was standing near the door as if unsure how to best take her leave. For a split second Éomer felt tempted to rush forwards and hug his daughter, seeing her forlorn figure, but then Lothíriel had reached her, and he saw Gytha's surprise at being spoken to by the princess. He could not see Lothíriel's face, nor could he understand what she was saying, but after a moment's hesitation, Gytha answered. Lothíriel had been right. The longer their conversation lasted, the more relaxed the girl became, and when he finally saw a smile flicker over Gytha's features, he started to slowly walk towards them.

Only when he stood directly at Lothíriel's side did Gytha notice him, her smile giving way at once to a shamefaced expression. "I'm sorry Éomer Faeder for being late. I... I simply forgot the time, though Ealder Modor had told me to hurry."

"You were out riding?"

Gytha shook her head. "No. I went to see Mildburh and Lynet. Ealder Modor had sorted out some sheets that were threadbare in places but could still be used to make swaddling cloths and she wanted them to have the linen before we left for Edoras."

Lothíriel smiled encouragingly. "And then you sat with them and forgot the time."

"No." Gytha shook her head. "I gave them the sheets and was about to leave, when Lynet suddenly said that she could feel the baby move for the first time. I wanted to feel it too, but when I put my hand on her belly I could not feel anything. And then Mildburh told Lynet to sit down on the kitchen bench, and we all gathered around. That is Mildburh, and Leofa and Eádhun. And then Mildburh sang and cooked groats for us." Gytha's face had flushed while she had been talking, as if reliving the excitement of that moment. "I so much would have liked to feel the baby stir. Lynet said it was like the wings of a tiny bird." The girl sighed. "Mildred said the child wanted to say thanks for the swaddling cloths." Smiling sheepishly, Gytha shrugged. "Well, and then we all had fléote grytt with honey to celebrate the stirring, and only afterwards did I realise how late it already was and that I had promised to make haste."

Éomer scratched his bearded jawline, not knowing what to say and it was Lothíriel who spoke up finally, not without having shot him an amused side glance first. "I can well understand that you wanted to feel the child stir, Gytha, but it would have been better had you remembered your promise to your grandmother sooner. Your father was truly worried when you were not present to welcome the guests. You have duties as the king's eldest daughter."

Gytha blushed. "I know, and I'm sorry."

Éomer could not but pity his girl. "Well," he finally grumbled, "at least when you came you knew how to represent Eorl's House. And certainly the first stirring of a child is something special."

Gytha looked at him, her face in a thoughtful frown. "Ceadda wants a girl, but Lynet wants a boy."

Lothíriel grinned. "Perhaps she'll have twins, and both of them will be satisfied."

Gytha's face lit up. "That truly would be worth a bet. I could put a silver penny down for that. What a pity we are leaving tomorrow morning."

"You can place your bet as soon as you come back," Lothíriel suggested.

Gytha nodded, and before Éomer realized the direction their talk was taking, she curiously asked the princess: "What would you like to have first, a son or a daughter?"

Lothíriel shrugged. "I would be happy in either case. But I suppose your father would be happier with a son."

"Yeah, needing an heir." Gytha scrunched up her face.

Lothíriel laughed. "That too. But I was rather thinking that he already has a daughter he loves very much, so perhaps a son would be adequate."

Gytha blushed that deep that her freckles did not show anymore, and smiling Lothíriel continued. "I will retire soon, Gytha, but I was asked by someone to give you something. Would you please accompany me to my room?"

The girl simply nodded, and curious, but obviously forgotten for the moment, Éomer followed them to Lothíriel's room. Briskly the princess opened the door and walking over to the table, pointed at a flat parcel she had already laid out.

"This was given to me by a young man I met at Emyn Arnen." She grinned at Éomer. "Said young man, who answered to the rather nice name of Winfrid, warned me to first ask your father whether he would allow you to be given this present, but as I deem both, the young man and the present, most useful and of high quality, I did not deem it necessary to apply for his permission."

"A present for me from Winfrid?" Uncertain Gytha looked from Lothíriel to Éomer and back, not knowing what to make of the princess' announcement. Éomer finally shrugged. "If the queen of the Mark thinks it fitting, I will not gainsay her."

Only then did Gytha open the packet, revealing a bunch of rather large sheets of paper, each one carefully covered with square lines, and a box holding longish pieces of something wrapped in oiled paper. Seeing the girl's confusion, Lothíriel explained.

"This is oiled chalk. Look." She opened one of the wraps, showing the tip of a piece of blue chalk. "Winfrid told me you wanted to weave a special traditional blanket. Using the chalk you can draw any pattern you like on this paper, as the squares make it easier to keep the necessary spacing and position." She smiled. "This kind of paper is used by builders and shipwrights in Gondor, and oiled chalk is used by artists to draw sketches. When I went to Minas Tirith in Éowyn's and Winfrid's company, I visited a certain artist and shipwright who is quite well known to your father, and seeing both items, Winfrid immediately realised that they would help you to get an overview of a pattern. And you can use them also to memorise certain patterns you have already woven."

Fascinated, Gytha unwrapped the chalks one by one, lining them up on the table top. And then she started to move them around, arranging and rearranging them, Lothíriel's and her father's presence obviously forgotten. Smiling Éomer watched her, when she suddenly looked up as if coming out of a dream, a turquoise piece of chalk in her hand. With a deep sigh she pointed at the chalk. "That would be so bloody nice a colour, Faeder. But where the heck can I find the dye to make such wool?"

* * *

><p><strong>annotations:<strong>

**fléote: **(Old English/Rohirric) cream

**grytt: **(Old English/Rohirric) groats

**Many, many thanks to Lialathuveril for pointing out my error concerning the first movements of an unborn child to me and to Lady Bluejay for helping me with the language.  
><strong>


	41. Chapter 41

**Chapter 41**

The air was cold and moist, the chill making Éomer's skin crawl as he stepped out into the yard to go over to the stables. With a frown he looked at the dark sky. For the time being it was only dull grey, no threatening clouds. He grimaced. No use to worry at a negligibility like that. And he could not change the weather anyway, so why bother? There still were some hours till all travellers would have rolled out of bed, broken their fast and be ready to leave for Edoras, and the weather might well change before then, for the better or the worse. One more day till Edoras... And they would make it, no matter what the weather was like.

He smiled, recalling the previous evening. Gytha's blushing as she had realised her slip of the tongue, and Lothíriel's open and friendly way of helping the girl over her embarrassment. And when Gytha had started to draw the first patterns on the lined paper, getting more and more absorbed in her activity, he and Lothíriel had ended up sitting by the fireside, holding hands and talking. Just talking, nothing else, but for the first time in an entire week without at least a dozen people around them. They had mostly spoken about those who had wished to come to the wedding but for different reasons could not: Amrothos, who had left the Houses of Healing but still had problems standing on his own feet, Éowyn, who was large with child, as was Queen Arwen, and Faramir who had taken up his office as Steward for the duration of King Elessar absence.

They had sat for quite a time, twice interrupted by servants coming in to add fuel to the fire, and had simply relished in the quiet joy of having each other close. Then Lady Geliris had entered to bid them good night the very moment when Gytha had finished her pattern and been about to explain her sketch. It had immediately become obvious that neither Lothíriel nor her mother knew anymore about weaving than he himself, but much to Gytha's joy, they were quite skilled in dyeing. Soon the three females had been in a vivid discussion about how to achieve the desired colouring, and Éomer had done nothing but sit back and watch. It was strange how much he had enjoyed watching them in lively conversation. Gytha's freckled face, flushed with eagerness, Lothíriel's visible interest and proficiency, and Lady Geliris' assuring friendliness, winning her Gytha's heart at once. _Éomer, the family-man! _Chuckling under his breath, he entered the stable.

It welcomed him with its typical smells and sounds, though the latter were little more than the occasional shuffle or snorting of one of the horses, as the entire building still seemed to be asleep. Entering the tack-room to check on the gear that had got wet the day before, he met a stable-hand who was sorting out those bridles that needed to be worked and greased before being put to use again. Soon the stable lads would start their daily chores, and the tack was not to be neglected.

Grabbing a carrot from the bucket near the door, Éomer walked down the stable-aisle to Firefoot's stall.

"No, Dear, not "kmarrb". Chmárb. Ch... a sound you make in your throat."

Éomer stopped in his tracks. The sun had not risen properly yet, and he had not expected anyone except the stable-hand on night-watch to be about. But the female voice that came from one of the stalls was without a doubt Lothíriel's. What was she doing here that early? His question was at least partly answered when Lothíriel's companion in the stall spoke up.

"Inchmarb."

Obviously Gytha's voice, the word being followed by a giggle.

"That's better. But the stress is on the second syllable. Inchmárb. Try it again."

The first sight that Éomer beheld when looking over the low stall door, were Hraefn and her foal, and then his gaze fell on Lothíriel and Gytha, sitting on upturned wooden buckets side by side, their backs comfortably against the wall of the stall, legs stretched out, sharing a grin full of mischief.

"Good morning, ladies." It was Éomer's turn then to grin, seeing his bride and daughter jump. But Lothíriel regained her composure immediately.

"Good morning, Éomer. You're up early?" Her smile was docile and sweet, but her eyes sparkled impishly. "Gytha and I just had a very informative exchange on expressions that refer to the animals of Middle-earth."

Seeing the grin return into Gytha's freckled face, he schooled his features. "Certainly. And what language was that you just had the kindness to teach my daughter?"

"Haradric" The corners of Gytha's grinning mouth nearly reached her earlobes. _Béma, what a barn door of a mouth did this daughter of his have!_

"Meaning what?" In vain did he try to show a stern face.

"Son of a donkey." Gytha crowed, doubling over with laughter.

Éomer raised his eyebrows. "Do I want to know what _you_ told the princess, Gytha Dohtor?" Still laughing, Gytha violently shook her head, but in one smooth movement Lothíriel rose and shrugged.

"I most certainly do understand your fatherly worries, but I assure you, your dear daughter did nothing but teach me the words ticca, widubucca and hund, combined with some very interesting adjectives like horig, dysig and swinlic, some of which I assure you I knew already, though not in this combination. But one should never refrain from broadening one's horizon of knowledge."

Snorting with laughter, Gytha rose, too. "If you are intent on broadening your horizon, you should ask Ceadda for the really good ones."

All of a sudden Éomer felt quite happy that they were leaving Aldburg after breakfast.

**ooo**

The weather held until they were on the upper third of the stairs that led up to Meduseld. Most of the guests from Gondor had been taken to guest-houses by servants, waiting for them in the yard, as but the highest in rank were to stay in the Golden Hall. Only a few steps before Éomer and Aragorn who were leading the procession reached the roof that sheltered parts of the high terrace, the clouds ripped open, spilling heavy drops on the arrivals. Immediately cheers, clapping of hands and shrill whistles could be heard from the commoners who thronged at the bottom of the staircase. Looking back, Éomer saw Lothíriel duck her head, but she made no move to pull up the hood which she had cast back to smile her greeting at the people. Lady Geliris looked slightly worried, but nevertheless kept her poise as did Imrahil, while Erchirion's face split in a wide grin.

As soon as they stepped under the roof, Frithuswith, accompanied by the women of the royal household offered the welcome-cup. Éomer drank, eyeing Lothíriel over the brim of his cup, who responded with a mischievous smile.

"Would you like me to change this cup with you, too?"

A sudden idea hit Éomer, and though he was not sure if he would regret it later, he could not resist the fun it promised. Grinning, he lowered his cup. "No, but are you up to..." He hesitated, for a moment unsure what to call his prank. "To once more greeting the people? From the edge of the terrace?"

"With this rain?" Lady Geliris seemed slightly shocked.

Out of corner of his eye, Éomer saw Aragorn grin. _Trust that old badger to know about the Mark and her superstitions. _Handing his cup to Frithuswith, who with a frown shook her head in consternation, he grinned at his bride.

"Trust me. I'll explain later."

Laughing she handed the cup back to Frithuswith and held out her hand to Éomer. "Let's do it then. It would not be the first time we got wet together." _No, certainly not! _He remembered their sailing tour, the daring manoeuvres outboard to help the boat to get speed, and his heart leaped. _His pirate!_

Clasping hands, they walked to the edge of the landing, soaked to their skin before they had reached the edge. They had not bothered to gather their cloaks about them after drinking the cup and the rain reminded them mercilessly of that neglect, but Lothíriel simply laughed.

"What am I to do?" She did not look at him as she asked, but remained facing the applauding crowd below smilingly, a queen facing her people.

He could have whooped with joy. "Smile and wave, Hlaefdige min."

He put an arm around her shoulders, and smiling she leaned into him, passing an arm around his midriff. The applause grew to a deafening roar, and with a swift movement Éomer wrapped her in his cloak, leading her back to the entrance, where Frithuswith was ushering the guests into the shelter of the hall.

Immediately women came up with blankets, wrapping up the ladies and handing towels and mulled wine everyone.

Handing him a towel, Frithuswith glared at Éomer. "You could not resist, you... What if she catches a cold?" It was little more than an angry whisper, but Lothíriel nevertheless caught it. Smiling, she addressed the housekeeper in Rohirric. "Don't you worry, Frithuswith. I'm not that frail."

While Frithuswith still stared at her really speaking the language of the Mark, Lothíriel turned to Éomer. "Nevertheless I would like an explanation of certain things, as I cannot imagine that it is simply the gloating over their betters getting wet that entertained the people of Edoras that much."

Éomer cleared his throat. "No, it certainly is not. It is seen as a happy omen if it rains when a bride is on her way to her future husband's house."

Erchirion guffawed. "He put it less circuitous when he told me about it at my arrival. Mind you, Loth: Each raindrop on the brides head means a child."

Looking at Éomer, Lothíriel shook her head in mock-reproach. "I should have expected something like that. But Uinen's sweet mercy, already walking up that stair I was hit by that many raindrops to last for all my life. What did posses you to drag me out into the rain again?"

Éomer shrugged. "Just some fun. Spring-rain is said to enhance fertility."

Lothíriel stared for a split second and then shook her head. "And you could not leave out a chance to demonstrate good will, could you?"

Before Éomer could say anything, Aragorn chimed in, a smile crinkling the corner of his eyes. "As a matter of fact the people of Edoras will say that of you, Lothíriel."

"Of me?" Not only the princess' face showed plain surprise and doubt.

Aragorn's smile deepened. "Certainly. Nobody down in the square was able to hear what their king said to you, but all saw that you reached out your hand to him, inviting him to step out into the rain."

The truth of Aragorn's statement hit Éomer like a poleaxe. "Béma, I had not realised..." He stopped dead, staring at Lothíriel and the Lady Geliris, who embracing each other, laughed so hard that their eyes watered.

Erchirion gave him a pitying glance. "Like when she got your first letter. And I still do not know what was so funny about it."

**ooo**

Like the days before, the ladies retired early, and Éomer did not feel very much inclined to spend another evening discussing Harondor and Gondor's new Admiral. He had a tankard of ale with the men, but when Aragorn and Imrahil rose to leave, he took the opportunity to join them. He knew he would not be able to sleep that early, but it would at least give him a chance to go through Lothíriel's letters again.

Opening the door to his study, he nearly collided with Frithuswith, who had been about to open the door from the inside. A little embarrassed the old housekeeper pointed at a small chest standing beside Éomer's desk. "Your princess brought me some things Calimab had asked her to bring to me, and as I'm sleeping in my alcove in the kitchen at the moment..."

"You're sleeping down there?" Éomer was shocked. " Why, Frithuswith? Cannot Ymma keep an eye on the things there? She seems more that capable to me and..."

Clucking, Frithuswith shook her head. "It's not like that, Éomer. Ymma is doing most of the coordination and she certainly is up to it. It's just that we are a bit hard up for respectable rooms, and therefore I gave mine up to old Lord Hurin. You cannot have him stay in one of the guest-houses, forced to hobble up and down the stairs daily."

"And his son and daughter-in-law?"

"Sharing a guest-house with another young couple." She grinned. "I also made Erchirion share with three of the younger men, though I was decent enough to ask him who he would like to stay with."

Remembering that all guests had been taken directly to their quarters upon their arrival, Éomer frowned. "When did you do that?"

Frithuswith chuckled. "I sent Hereward over to Aldburg. He was back at noon today and that gave us time enough to sort things out." Blushing a little she added: "I wrote Lady Hrodwyn a note, asking for the specific numbers."

"You wrote?" Éomer did not believe his ears.

Grinning proudly, she nodded. "I did. And what is more, I was able to understand her answer. And so everything went swimmingly."

"It's worth knowing your letters, isn't it?" Grinning Éomer went over to the fireplace to put some more sods on the fire. "But then most of the Gondorean guests should not give you any problems. They were more that pleasing on the road."

Frithuswith snorted. "Certainly they were. Hand-picked by the king and that father-in-law of yours, who certainly is the slyest fox I have ever come across."

"Hand-picked by Aragorn?" Éomer stood flabbergasted. "What do you mean by that? And how do you know?

A smug expression on her face, Frithuswith sat down in a chair by the fire. "As you said: It's worth knowing one's letters. I got a note from Éowyn. Aragorn and Imrahil claimed that as you are a warrior-king and came to Gondor's aid on the battlefield all those lords and nobles who had shown their prowess on the Pelennor or before the Black Gate should accompany them, regardless of their wealth or influence. Faramir was quite impressed by that idea." She shrugged. "As always there were some pompous twats who insisted on coming and were too influential to be gainsaid, but as I learned from Berhtulf and Folcred, Aragorn and Imrahil enjoyed themselves a lot, taking the mickey out of them."

Remembering the camp near the Mehring and Aragorn's order to serve nothing but ale, Éomer grinned. Despite the demands of their position these two obviously had found a way to cope with the odds and stupidities of court-life.

"I see I'm well cared for. So you got a note from Éowyn? What does she write?"

"You can read for yourself." Rummaging in the chest, she took out a letter and handed it to Éomer. He opened it and found it consisted of only a few paragraphs.

_Westu, Frithuswith, hál._

_I am in Minas Tirith with Éomer's bride. I hate the town, but Lothíriel is great fun, as is her father. Faramir told me that King Elessar and Prince Imrahil will only take proven warriors with them to Rohan and leave all the conceited posers behind, no matter how important they think themselves. _

_We took Winfrid with us. He asked me to give his regards to you. He is a good lad and Faramir and his Rangers are more than content with him, but he excels when dealing with animals or children. But what I like most about him is his eagerness to learn. _

_Lothíriel took us to see Master Calimab, to have a sketch of me drawn for you because I am so fascinated with the pictures of Rohan he had drawn for her. I asked him to also do Winfrid. Only on our way back to Prince Imrahil's town-house did the boy tell us that said Master Calimab had certainly lost his heart to you but that you seemed to be inclined to bite his head off. _

_It seems though that things have developed differently in the meantime, as Calimab asked Lothíriel if she could arrange the transport of some cloth he had bought for you. Whatever you do, Frithuswith, I wish you all possible luck._

_Give my regards to my big and overbearing brother. He certainly is getting more than he deserves with that princess of his._

_Yours, É._

"So your carpenter sent you some cloth?" Éomer found it hard to suppress a chuckle when Frithuswith angrily threw up her hands, blushing profoundly.

"Just imagine: Silk velvets." She shook her head. "For me. That man must be nuts."

"So what? It certainly isn't a bad thing if a man is mad about a woman. Only I had somehow expected Calimab to come with the entourage from Gondor."

Frithuswith shook her head. "No, Éomer. You were clever enough to have Gytha here for Yule, so the attention was on her. Do you think I'm more stupid than you? I would not even have a bed to share with him with all the guests thronged in Edoras, let alone the time to enjoy him being here." She grimaced. "He'll come in April, once I have a dress made of that velvet he sent."

Opening the chest, she took out two more papers and handed them Éomer. They were sketches of Éowyn, one showing her standing in a window recess, looking directly at the beholder. _The Éowyn he knew._ But it was the other picture that had him press his lips together to control the sudden emotion that flooded him. It depicted a sleeping Éowyn, lying on her side outstretched on a settee, her face peaceful, one hand tucked under her head, while her other hand rested on her visibly rounded abdomen. Come May his little sister was going to be a mother.

He looked up and met Frithuswith's gaze. "Have you thought of going to Emyn Arnen for the birth?"

Frithuswith shook her head. "No, Éomer. I do not want to leave Edoras, let alone the Mark. I'm old. Perhaps I'll be able to uphold business in Edoras for a few more years, but you know that I'm training Ymma to take things over. Probably Calimab and I will get a small house..."

"No, Frithuswith." Taking her hands in his, he squeezed them gently. "Give your responsibilities to Ymma as soon as you deem fitting, but stay at Meduseld. Is not your room large enough for two?And we certainly can arrange a workshop that meets Calimab's demands. Stay, Frithuswith. Lothíriel will need your care and council as did Éowyn and I. And you deserve to hold the children in your arms that by all but blood will be your grandchildren."

With a brisk movement she withdrew her hands to wipe her moistening eyes. "You had better go to bed, boy. They will come early for you tomorrow morning to ride the Rihtende." Smiling, she stood up. Éothain had your guards polishing their gear for the last two days. Good night." She left, proud and erect as always, but it seemed to Éomer as if she shut the door a bit less forceful than usual.

Thoughtfully Éomer went over to his bedroom. Frithuswith was right. Tomorrow at sunrise the Lords of the Mark would accompany him on the Rihtende, a ride around the outer borders of Edoras, from the fords of the Snowbourn up in a wide circle into the valley, as far as the foothills in the south and then following a smaller stream back to the river. And then there would be the ritual bath, the breakfast with the lords... Frustrated he rolled his shoulders. To know Lothíriel to be under the same roof … And yet there was no chance of seeing her before the wedding tomorrow afternoon. _Tomorrow..._

He walked over to the window and opened it. The night sky was clear after the evening's downpour, countless stars strewn over its vastness. In the garden the silhouettes of the still leafless trees could be made out, darker against the dark sky. _Were the tulips already blossoming? _There had been no time to check, and anyway the garden was only a poor substitute for the vast stretches of the plains covered in blossoms of red and pale yellow. Soon he would take her out to the East Emnet to show her the wild flowers of the plains. _What would she say? What would it feel like to gallop over fresh grass, its smell mingling with that of the horses? Freedom... peace... the smell of crushed grass... What would she look like, bedded in the wild flowers of the plain...He would take her to the East Emnet.. He would take her... _Feeling his arousal jerk against the confinement of his breeches, he shook his head like a wet dog in a futile attempt to get the images out of his head.

And then he beheld the silhouette of the woman that stood at the edge of the small porch, close to the stairs leading down into the terraced garden. He felt his pulse speed up. _Could it be?_Without a second thought he left the room.

Reaching the door in the queen's solar, he found it unlocked, the key being left in the lock. Swiftly he stepped out, only to find himself immediately addressed by the guard at the corner of the building. Recognizing him, the man saluted and went back to his post, turning his back to Éomer with ostentation.

"Éomer?" Her voice not more than an enquiring whisper, Lothíriel approached him haltingly. He swallowed, trying to keep his need to simply sweep her up in his arms under control.

"Can't you sleep, Dear?" Kissing her knuckles, he searched her face for traces of nervousness.

Smiling, she shook her head. "I have not even tried yet. It has all been so intense today. I just needed a moment to myself and a bit of fresh air."

"Would you like me to leave you alone then to have that moment to yourself?" _Béma, why could he not stop teasing her? He certainly deserved to be slapped. _Her reaction tough made his breath catch. Freeing her hand, she cupped his cheek, and then her fingers slowly followed the line of his jaw in a caressing stroke. Her face was so close... so close and so serious, no smile curving her lips, her eyes dark pools in the dim light of the moon.

"If I could have a wish granted, I would want you to never leave me alone." Her fingers slid over his throat and then came to rest on his nape. "I just cannot contain the love and need I feel for you."

_Restrain yourself! _Somewhere in the back of his mind a warning voice screamed, muffled by the pounding of his blood, lashed by the squall of overwhelming desire._ His! _No frenzied dream, but solid reality. Her body so warm in his arms, her breath a soft moan as he kissed her deeply, tasting her, plundering that sweet mouth, his senses reeling with the sensation of his erection meeting the softness of her abdomen. Her body arced as she tried to pull him even closer... _Madness... this was madness... And he would not be able to stop it._

"Halt! Who is walking there?" The guard's shout brought Éomer back to his senses. For a split second he stood, panting, looking into Lothíriel's confused face.

"Why, Céorl, stop making a fuss. It's just me, Erchirion. Time I went home. I just want to take the short-cut through the garden."

While Erchirion was still speaking, Éomer had already led Lothíriel to the solar-door. "Go, Love. And lock the door behind you."

She still looked like a sleepwalker, but she nodded, and when he walked towards the corner of the porch to meet Erchirion and the guard, Éomer heard the key being turned in the lock.

"Erchirion?"

Swaying slightly, Lothíriel's brother gave him a wide grin. "Why, horse-boy, what are you doing here? Trying to spy out my sister's window?"

"Wouldn't dare to, Brother, for no doubt your father would force me to marry her."

Erchirion howled with laughter, while the guard stood motionless, his face not giving away anything. _That much for the benefit of well-trained guards. _Though Éomer had no doubt that come morning, his adventure on the porch would be discussed in the barracks. He looked Erchirion over. His friend was obviously well in his cups, and it was more than doubtful if he would find his way through the garden in the dark without ending up in one of the rose-bushes. _Béma knows, he should be thankful for the man's appearance._

Smiling, he reached out his hand. "Come on Erchirion, I had better take you home. Give me your arm, and I'll lead you _down_ the garden-path.

**ooo**

Contentedly Éomer leaned back in his chair, surveying the thronged hall below the royal dais: Gondorean and Rohirric nobility seated at long tables, their attention caught by the bard's exquisite performance. His own mind was rather captured by the woman at his side: Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, his pirate princess, soon to become Queen of the Mark. His hand wandered under the table to come to rest on her thigh, and she lifted her eyes with a rakish grin and then put her own hand on his. He could have laughed out loud with joy. She had shown no sign of nervousness yet, but eaten with good appetite, though she had avoided any alcohol, save for the traditional cup of mead they had shared. She looked breathtakingly beautiful in her dress of night-blue silk and velvet, her hair done up in a complicated arrangement of braids, interwoven with strands of pearls that stood out in contrast to her black tresses, forming a shimmering headdress.

The sleeves of the silken kirtle were laced up to her elbow and lay tight around her lower arm, and he wondered how long it would take him to untie all those laces. And certainly there were more. He suppressed a sigh. He would have to be patient, not to scare her. He had drunk but little, afraid that too much drink would cause him to lose the hold over his desire. He wanted this night to be good for her, and that meant he had to restrain himself and be careful.

His gaze wandered to the slowly dimming square of the louvre high in the roof above the hearth. Soon the sun would set, soon he would light the torch and lead her to his rooms … their rooms. He breathed deep. He loved her, wanted her madly and he knew she at least felt the same, his bold and yet innocent pirate. And there lay his problem. He would be bedding a virgin and the mere thought of causing her pain made his stomach churn, though it did little to dampen his desire for more than a heartbeat, leaving him in a confusing whirl of desire and self-loathing.

And Eáldread's approach before the wedding had not made things easier, as what he had said summed up to a warning not to lose control over his passion and treat her gently lest he hurt her more than necessary. But then the old counsellor was expecting her to be a delicate Gondorean princess, not the warrior's daughter he had come to know on the choppy waters of Cobas Haven.

That attempt to lift his uneasiness did not hold for long though, as he immediately recognized it for what is was: self-deception. He never had had any doubt about what she would put up with without complaint, but the knowledge that he himself and the satisfaction of his desire would be the reason for her pain felt like a barbed hook in his conscience.

The bard closed his song, and Éomer felt his throat go dry. _Their turn now!_ The assembled Rohirrim looked at them expectantly, while most of the Gondoreans were not sure what to make of it. He turned to Lothíriel, trying to hide his nervousness behind a smile, and rising he took her hand, tenderly kissing her knuckles. "It's time, Hleafdige min."

She smiled back at him, blushing lightly, and hand in hand they solemnly walked down the middle of the hall towards the hearth. Elfhelm stood there, waiting for them, and with a pang Éomer realised that it should have been Théoden, nay, Éomund to hand them the torch. The thought, and with it the sorrow, vanished the moment they reached the hearth and Elfhelm handed him the unlit torch. Turning he presented it to Lothíriel, and as she had been advised, she took it, and placing his hand over hers, together they lowered the torch to the fire in the hearth, lifting it in front of them as soon as it had kindled. The musicians started to play, voices rose in song and ribald remarks as clasping their hands around the sacred brand, Éomer and Lothíriel left the hall.

* * *

><p><strong>Annotations:<strong>

**Inchmárb: **As the Professor himself does not give any hints at the language of Near-Harad, I had to construct something that might sound authentic. I used Arabian words as a basis, to get a characteristic sound, but switched the first letter to the end of the expression.

**ticca: **(Old English/Rohirric) tick

**widubucca: ** (Old English/Rohirric)wild goat

**hund: ** (Old English/Rohirric) dog

**horig:** (Old English/Rohirric) dirty

**dysig: ** (Old English/Rohirric) stupid

**swinlic: ** (Old English/Rohirric) piggish

**kirtle: **medieval gown, worn over a shift or chemise, often worn with a surcoat of a different material over it. I saw the kind of gown and lacing described in the story years ago in some brochure about Leeds Castle and found it very enticing. ;-)

* * *

><p><strong>Many, many thanks to Lady Bluejay for helping me with the language. <strong>


	42. Chapter 42

**Chapter 42**

With a thud the richly carved door closed behind them, leaving them in the seclusion of the royal bedroom. The thick curtains covering the windows emphasised the impression of privacy, creating an island of mingled shade and light, provided by the banked up fire in the hearth and an abundance of beeswax candles that saturated the air in the room with their sweet smell.

Wordlessly Éomer led his bride to the yet unlit one that was standing on the big chest at the foot of the bed. Made from wax of two different shades in intertwining patterns, it stood in the middle of a wreath of barley, positioned on a water-filled earthenware plate. He squeezed her hand, and she lowered the torch to ignite the candle, causing the spiky ears to shine forth like living gold.

Taking the torch from Lothíriel's hand, Éomer went over to the hearth, and stirring the piled birch-wood, he thrust it in, the flames leaping up as they caught the resin-soaked shaft. Turning round, he found her gazing at the wreath, stroking the shining ears.

"Lothíriel?" Stepping up behind her, he pulled her close. "What is it?" She tilted her head backwards and looked up. "Your people certainly expect much of us," she said with a wry smile, pointing at the candle, now burning brightly in the middle of the barley wreath.

Nuzzling her ear, he stifled a laugh. "Our people, my wife and queen."

"Not yet," she retorted, rising her brows in mock haughtiness, while she started to loosen her braids to remove the headdress. "We may have exchanged our vows, but you still have to prove that you can light more than just torches. And if I'm not mistaken, you yourself told me that I will not be acknowledged Queen of the Riddermark before tomorrow morning when you announce the consummation of our marriage." She put down the pearls next to the candle, her hair tumbling over her shoulders in a tangle of jet-black braids and tresses.

Éomer blinked. He had not been prepared for such banter at that very moment, but it reminded him of something that had absolute priority. Letting go of her, he quickly went over to the door and pushed the bolt home. "Not that I think that any Rohir would wish or dare to interrupt us, but I don't trust that brother of yours as far as I can kick him," he explained with determination.

"You do Erchirion wrong," she exclaimed, only to be stopped by his chuckle, as he caught her round her midriff, planting a teasing kiss on the tip of her nose.

"And who turned up last night in a highly unfitting moment?"

"Oh." The sound was little more that a breath, and averting her head, she hid her face in his shoulder. Resting his cheek on the crown of her head, he pulled her close, holding her wrapped in his arms. Nothing more, just holding her, close to his heart, his life. After a while she raised her head, pushing him back a little to be able to look into his eyes. "It's so stupid," she admitted, "but I'm nervous."

He wished he could laugh her nervousness away, assure her that all would be bliss, but he felt he would deceive her by doing so. Cupping her face in both of his hands, he tenderly kissed her, relishing the sensation of her hands gliding up his body to finally rest on his shoulders. Breaking the kiss, he sighed. "Lothíriel, I will do everything I can to make this good for you. I'm afraid though I might hurt you."

She nodded . "I know, they told me it may hurt, but I don't care." Squeezing his shoulders, she gave him a reassuring smile. "Éomer, this has been right for thousands and thousands of women since the beginning of time, why should it not be right for me, for us?" Her right hand tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear, her fingers stroking his bearded jawline in an endearing caress. He closed his eyes, letting his mind float in the tenderness of her touch, her closeness, the tempting smell of her warm skin. _Béma, he needed her!_

"Éomer." Her breath caressed his ear, her whisper scarcely audible. "Éomer, I trust you. I know you would never hurt me deliberately."

He wanted to answer, assure her, but before he could say anything, she grabbed the embroidered collar of his tunic, pulling his head down to claim his mouth in a searing kiss.

"I need you. And I need you to need me." Her voice was hoarse with desire, causing his passion to flare, and with a vice-like grip he crushed her to his body, stifling a groan at the wild tattoo of her pulse as his lips grazed the hollow of her throat. Kissing his way up, he softly sucked in her bottom lip, one hand wandering up to the nape of her neck, the other down to the tempting curve of her buttocks.

With a breathless moan she let her fingers slide down to his waist, reaching for his belt, tracing its circle, until both her hands met over the buckle. For a moment she fumbled, and then loosening it, she let the belt drop to the floor, scabbard, dagger and all landing on the soft rug with a muffled thud. Hesitating for but a heartbeat, she tugged at the hem of his garb, and then the sensation of her nimble fingers creeping up below his tunic, his shirt, sliding up his flanks till they reached bare skin at his waist made him hold his breath. Letting go of her, he hastily pulled his tunic over his head, not caring where it fell, followed by his shirt.

Looking at her, he found her staring mesmerised at his naked chest, and then, ever so slowly, she raised her hand, stroking over the planes of his ribcage, her fingers gliding softly through the tawny chest hair, before following down the slightly darkening trail of hair to his abdomen. He caught her hand, pressing it to his lips and then started with trembling fingers to unlace her sleeves. Pushing back the rustling silk from her right lower arm, his eyes met the scar around her wrist. A ridge of angry red as broad as his thumb where the rope had cut deep into her flesh the very first day they had met. Bending over it, he kissed her wrist, the scar, witness of her courage and determination, and then sliding his other arm around her, he pulled her close, kissing the inner side of her arm till he reached the crook, triumph swelling his heart at the sight of goosebumps springing up in the wake of his mouth. She wanted him, and she would be his tonight, tonight and for the rest of his life.

Pushing both hands against his chest, she slipped out of his embrace. Confused he looked up. Was there anything wrong? Had he done anything she did not want him to do? There she stood, erect, her chin raised in challenge, her breast heaving, her face flushed in the warm light of the candles. She looked irresistible. Abruptly she shoved the other arm towards him. "Untie it." An order, not a plea, though spoken in a breathless voice. _His Queen._ He obliged, suppressing the wish to just cut the endless laces once and for good, and then reached out for the ones of her bodice. He felt her body tremble, and when his hands cupped her breasts, having freed them from their velvet prison, the smooth dark-blue silk of her kirtle did nothing to hide the sensation of her nipples hardening under his touch. There were two more laces at the back of her gown, and reaching around her, he untied them, the feeling of her lithe body pressing into his not really helping him to concentrate on the slip knots.

Finally the whispering silk slid off her shoulders, and as she wriggled out of the now unlaced sleeves, the dress glided down her body, pooling around her feet like the glistening waters of an enchanted tarn. She stepped out of it, her movement bringing her closer to the side of the bed, and Éomer's breath hitched at the display before him. Her chemise was made of some kind of white lawn, so delicate that it seemed to be semi-transparent in the golden light of the candles. Different from the voluminous outer garments, it hugged her frame closely, not only accentuating the curves of her body but also revealing her nipples and the ebony-curled triangle as alluring darker shades.

Following her, he embraced her, his large hands roaming over her body, relishing the contradiction of the smooth softness of her skin and the tautness of the muscles below.

"Get this off me, I need to be closer." A slightly audible whisper, but it called to him like the bellowing of the great horns before a battle. His fingers groped for the laces of the chemise without finding any, and stepping back a little to have a look, he could not suppress a groan of frustration: The shoulder-part on both sides consisted of a complicated arrangement of the flimsiest laces he had ever seen. _This just could not be! _The tightening in his groin had become almost painful by now and he desperately reached for the last threads of his self-control while his hands followed the line of her collar bone. Out of their own volition his fingers slipped under the hem of the neckline and for a crucial split second their eyes met, mirroring mutual desire and hunger.

Hunger! Gleaming in those slate-coloured eyes, causing her nostrils to flare and her lips to tremble. Hunger … his hands clutched and with one determined pull he ripped the chemise apart, baring her body down to her hips. And then she was in his arms, stammering his name as her nails dug into his shoulder blades in a frenzied attempt to pull him even closer. One hand at her nape, he bent her backwards, conquering her lips while the arch of her body caused their pelvises to grind together, the more so as his other hand grabbed her buttocks, pulling her into him. Never breaking the kiss, she let her hands slide down his sides, and when his right hand wandered up to caress her breast, he felt her unlacing his breeches. With a groan he let his head fall back as his erection sprang free and then he pulled her close again, shivering as the softness of her belly touched him. _Béma! This woman was undoing him before he even had got out of his clothes._

It took him a second to realise that she had gone absolutely still in his arms, nestled against his body, her arms around his waist, her head buried into his shoulder. "Lothíriel?" He softly kissed the tip of her ear. "Is anything wrong?"

Without looking up, she shook her head. "No," she mumbled into the bend of his neck. "No, there's nothing wrong. I just feel so ...I don't know."

_Was she frightened? Had he been too rash? _Only now he realised that she most probably never had seen an erection let alone felt one pressed against her abdomen. But then: There she was, snuggling into him, and had not she reached for his laces? He tried to loosen his hold on her, but that only caused her to pull him tighter, a low-pitched sound of discontent vibrating in her throat. _What was that unbelievable woman doing to him? _He was at a loss, but utterly relieved, as it seemed clear that she was quite content in his arms. He heaved a deep breath. Perhaps it was just his chance to get back at least some of his equilibrium. But he needed to see her face, to understand what was going on. He tenderly nipped her ear. "Lothíriel, please look at me."

Letting go of him, she slowly raised her head, lifting her face to him, but her eyes remained shut. Her face had a strange expression, as if she was in a kind of trance or lost in reverie. She seemed content, but he could not help worrying. "Lothíriel, won't you open your eyes? Please, Dear."

A smile spread over her face, but she kept her eyes closed, and smiling she shook her head, pressing her body against his, while her hands caressed his face. "No," she whispered. "No, not yet. Let me stay just a moment longer like this and feel."

Her fingers traced his jawline and she sighed contentedly, before her hands locked around his neck and her head sank back against his shoulder. He kissed the crown of her head, cradling her against him, until he felt that her shoulders started to tremble. Alarmed he tightened his hold on her, and only then did he realise that she was chuckling. "Lothíriel?"

Her hands sliding down to his chest, she looked up, her eyes open now, brimming with joy. "I'm mad, Éomer, simply mad with joy. I ..." Her eyes filled with tears while she still was smiling. "It's just too much … so much I can't hold it. I …" She shook her head. "I just can't believe it is happening. I so often dreamt of it, imagined it, longed for it all these months and now..." She sighed and closed her eyes again, and then she pressed her belly with a sudden jerk against him, her voice reduced to a hoarse whisper. "You feel so good, Éomer, so gloriously good ... and you make me feel … so incredible, so ..."

_Gloriously good … He had to get out of his breeches._ Gliding down her body, his hands took the shreds of her chemise with them, and then pushed down his breeches that had remained caught on his hipbones. Pulling her close again, he tried to step out of his legwear ...and froze. _The boots! Those bloody, cursed boots!_ He had absolutely forgotten about them, and now he found himself in the most awkward and embarrassing situation, hampered by his pulled-down breeches, in front of the woman he loved and desired. He felt the heat of a furious blush crawl up his neck and flush his face.

"Éomer?" Her hands on his chest, she looked enquiring into his heated face. "Have I embarrassed you? Have I done anything wrong? Should I..."

"No. No dear, _you _did nothing wrong." Her obvious unease spurred him on to overcome the embarrassment. "Unless you want to take the blame on you that I forgot I was wearing boots I should have got out of before doffing my breeches."

"What?" A quick glance down his body confirmed the problem. A huge grin on her face, she looked up to him. "Well, my Warrior King, let Dol Amroth come to your aid." Quickly she crouched down in front of him. "You had better sit down, Dear. I can't pull your boots off like that." Smiling, she looked up and gave him a light shove.

Ungracefully he slumped down on the bed, looking down on the tangle of hair that fell over the creamy skin of her shoulders as she bent forwards to grab the heel of one boot. _So near. So incredibly near. _He felt his throat go dry, though his throat was by far not the only part of his body to react.

Throwing the first boot aside unceremoniously, Lothíriel went for the second one and within no time she had removed not only his footwear, but also the breeches. It was only then that she realised that his erection was mere inches away from her face. Her eyes went from it to Éomer's face and back to his aroused member. And then she blinked. "It twitches." Her voice betrayed nothing but true amazement.

Mirth bubbled up inside him, yet he could not help a groan. "Lothíriel, have mercy! What do you expect it to do, with your lips that near?"

"Oh, I didn't realise." Blushing furiously, her gaze sought his, insecure and enquiring. "Do you want me to ..."

"Béma, no!" Seizing her hands, he pulled her up, hugged her to his chest and taking her with him, he rolled over onto the bed in one smooth movement.

If she was surprised by his sudden action she hid it well. She sat up and pushed the tangles of her hair out of her eyes. "So you don't like it?"

Éomer groaned. "Lothíriel, it's not that I don't like it, but believe me, if you did it, our wedding night would be over well before it started."

She stared, not understanding at once, but then she blinked again, her blush even darker than before. "Oh." A short, little, breathless sound, followed by a deep breath. "For a moment I had thought she had told me a lie."

"Who"? He found it difficult to control his voice. _Had she really talked to someone about giving a... sceaftpipian? _Perplexed he realised that he did not even know the Westron word for it.

"The woman I asked," she said matter of fact. "I asked anyone who I thought willing to give me an answer. I had seven months to get prepared for my life in Rohan, you do not really think that I let them pass idly, do you?" She tilted her head, a smug expression on her face."I did not only prepare to be Queen of the Riddermark, Éomer King, but..." The blush was back, flitting into her cheeks. "More than all I want to be your wife, a good wife … And that's why I tried to get as much information as possible."

Éomer was nonplussed but then he remembered their talk at the archers' training ground at Dol Amroth. _"Once I have decided to do something, I like to be as good as possible, no matter what it is."_ He could not help a chuckle. That surely was the bold pirate he knew and admired. Gently cupping her chin in his large hand, he kissed her lower lip teasingly. "So I get a very well-educated wife."

She grinned. "Well, the answers varied a lot, depending on the woman who gave them, and some advice was simply useless."

His eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "Like?"

She snorted. "Close your eyes and hold on to the bedsheets." Their gaze locked and they doubled over with laughter. Kneeling on the bed beside her, he held her close, chuckling as her laughter turned into a violent hiccup. Finally her mirth abated, and wriggling out of his arms, she gave him a mischievous grin. "Though Éowyn told me, holding onto the sheets might not be such a bad idea with her brother."

"You discussed me with Éowyn?" _Béma, what else would he learn of that woman tonight?_

She shook her head. "No, we did not _discuss_ anything or anyone. But I wanted to understand who you are and she told me a lot about you, your life, your childhood … and I told her about Faramir."

What had his sister told her? Éomer felt taken aback and a good lot sobered. But then … perhaps it was quite a good thing his ardour got dampened a little or he would not last long.

Seeing his frown, she smiled and let the tip of her forefinger slide tenderly over his moustache. "There's no need for both of you men to worry, as we only wanted to find out how to please our respective husbands best."

_How this woman could switch his mood so totally effortless!_ Responding to her smile, he nipped her fingertip. "So you want to please your husband, my lady wife?"

She nodded, leaning into his embrace and closing her eyes as he claimed her mouth. _Soft and firm, yielding and demanding at the same time. His wife. _His hand wandered down her back, tracing the curve of her hip, the firm roundness of her bottom, the strong muscles of her thigh and then slowly ran up her belly, smooth and soft under his touch. It followed the bend of her waist and finally cupped the warm heaviness of her breast, that fitted so splendidly into his palm. Holding her close, he kissed his way down to her breast, and then flicked his tongue over her pebbled nipple, smiling against the softness of her skin as she jerked against him with a moan.

Her breath now came ragged, and overwhelmed by a rush of male pride, some primitive joy at being the cause of her entrancement, Éomer drank in the sight of her heaving breasts, her rapt face. Her eyes were closed and her lips slightly opened in a soft moan, but all of a sudden her eyes flew open.

"I'm sorry, Éomer, I'm so sorry."

**annotations:**

**sceaftpipian: **Rohirric/Old English) This word does not really exist. It is an invention of Lialathuveril, who rightfully pointed out that "blow-job" sounded too modern. ;-)

**sceaft:** (Old English/Rohirric) shaft, stem

**pipian:** (Old English/Rohirric) pipe/blow, play an instrument.

**Many, many thanks to Lady Bluejay for helping me with the language and to Lialathuveril for not only using Old English in a very inventive way but also for pointing out the most evil spot for a cliffy to me. ;D**


	43. Chapter 43

**Chapter 43**

The low, nearly choked whisper made him feel as if a bucket of cold water had been emptied over his live body._ What in Béma's name was she sorry for? _Doubt gripped his heart with an icy claw. Was there anything important she had kept from him? Any lie she now regretted to have told him? Gritting his teeth in a desperate attempt to regain his composure, he looked down into her face. She had closed her eyes again, her teeth clamped down on her lower lip to keep it from trembling.

And suddenly, as if a door had opened to some hidden room in his mind, he knew that it did not matter what she would tell him. What mattered was that she was trying to do so, trying despite her embarrassment and feeling of guilt. Whatever it was, he would put up with it. And she was fighting fair, because though telling him late, she nevertheless was trying to tell him before the consummation of the marriage. Slowly his fingers trailed down her temples, feathering over her cheekbones. She was his, his love, his responsibility, and whatever she had to say, he would hear her out. He lowered his head and softly kissed her brow. "Don't worry, Lothíriel, just tell me." His fingers slid down to her throat and he felt her swallow.

She opened her eyes but avoided his gaze, shame and nervousness obvious. "It's just..." Her face glowed with embarrassment. "I know I should do something... to please you, I mean... But I can't."

"What?" Never in his life had he been as dumbfounded as now. A moment ago she had been squirming under his caress, moaning with pleasure, and the next she told him… He hesitated. _What exactly was she telling him?_

He heaved a breath to steady himself. "Wait, Lothíriel, what distresses you?"

She looked at her hands. "They told me so many things that a woman can do… But I can't. I just feel so… I don't know how, and I can't think, and my body just…just doesn't obey, like I'm going...going to melt."

Realising what she had said, he gasped as the bolt of passion shot through him._ Béma, this woman was his death! _Torn between the need to groan and to laugh, he buried his head in her ebony mane. "Lothíriel, Love, you don't have to do anything but to be here, here with me. You are a bride. No one expects you to..."

She stubbornly shook her head. "But women can..." His kiss stopped her mid-sentence, and her hands crawled up to the nape of his neck as she opened her lips to his conquering tongue. When they finally broke the kiss and he looked down again into her face he felt goosebumps crawl over his entire frame. _...like I'm going to melt ... Béma, she was burning him alive! _She opened her eyes, surprised to find him looking down at her.

"Women certainly can, you certainly can, Dear. But not tonight." Dabbing short kisses along her jawline, he reached her throat, kissing his way down to her collarbone. "Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps later, we'll find out together. Tonight you just lay back and let me love you, and all you have to do is enjoy."

She smiled a little shakily and caressed his face with trembling fingers. "You are my joy, Éomer." Nestling into his embrace, she sighed. "I'm just afraid..."

He stiffened and then tightened his hug. "I will be careful, I promise."

She shook her head. "No, Dear, not because of that. I'm afraid that I'll wake up and you won't be there." Her arms went around his ribcage, as she nuzzled into his chest. "I dreamt of you so many times, I missed you so much." He rested his cheek on the crown of her head, holding her as she whispered her past sorrow. "During the days so many things reminded me of you, so many things I saw and did I would have liked to have shown you, shared with you, and I felt so terribly lonely. But then I had things to do and people to be with and I could cope. But in the nights..." Her grip tightened. "I needed you so desperately."

"Shh, Love. I'm here now. I'll be there when you wake up in the morning. This time it won't be just a dream."

Her hands around his midriff, he nuzzled into her tangled hair, his desire for a moment forgotten as the wish to protect her filled him with overwhelming force. But though this feeling persisted, it nonetheless was soon shoved into some corner of his mind, the sensation of the more than willing woman in his arms blanking out any other feeling and thought. Grinning rakishly, he nipped the tip of her ear. "But you are not going to sleep right now, are you?"

"You...!" Her head jerked up, nearly colliding with his teeth, but her glare did not last long and soon transformed into a smile. That smile of hers that he could not imagine living without anymore. Kissing her softly, he lowered himself onto the bed, pulling her with him, till she lay beside him, clad in flickering golden light and the tussled mass of her jet-black hair.

Propping his head on one hand, he looked down at her, realising that nothing would stop him now, even if the roof of Meduseld were on fire. He needed her. Now. And yet there was something else he wanted her to know. Slowly tracing the arc of her eyebrows with a calloused forefinger, he looked down into her smiling face. "Lothíriel, you don't realise how much you are doing for me, to me, just by letting me touch you, kiss you and feel your body respond." His fingers trailed down her face, her throat, crawled over the creamy skin of her shoulders, down to the dark pink of her pebbled nipples. She sucked her breath in at his touch, her eyes widening. Covering her breast with one large hand, he bent his head for another kiss. "You are undoing me, my lady wife, just by showing me that I am welcome." Her hands went around his neck, her fingers entangled in his hair, pulling him down, as she opened her mouth to his exploring tongue, demanding and yielding at the same time.

Finally he broke the kiss. He wanted to look at her, drink in her enticing form with his eyes, but as tempting as her body was, his gaze was drawn back to her face, that display of her love and rapture. Her eyes were closed again, and he softly kissed her eyelids, while his hand slid down from her breast to her hip. He traced the great muscle on the outside of her thigh before letting his fingers slowly crawl up the inner side, relishing the softness of her skin. But it was the expression of her face that made his breath come ragged, demanding all the self-control he could muster.

Her head tilted back slightly, and she was biting her lower lip, her nostrils flaring. Stroking down again towards her knee, he bent down to her, whispering into her ear, his voice nearly out of control, hoarse and ragged with passion. "Let go, Love, don't hold back. Trust me."

Her eyes flew open and for a split second he felt like tumbling into their slate-grey abyss, drawn by the desire and passion they displayed. "I do trust you," she breathed with trembling lips, and when his hand slid up her thigh again, she pulled up one knee, and bending it outwards, she bared the folds of her core to his searing gaze, pink swollen sweetness, framed by jet-black curls.

He gritted his teeth, fearing to slip out of control and ever so slowly moved his hand up her thigh. He felt her trembling under his palm, and when he finally touched those beckoning folds, he heard her breath hitch. Her eyelids fluttered, as with a strangled moan she pressed herself against his caressing hand. Captivated by her face, he stared at it, watched as passion loosened her features, while his searching fingers parted her folds, moist, juicy like some ripe fruit, delicious and maddening. _Béma he needed this woman! _Unerringly his fingers slid up towards her bud, circled it teasingly, probing, spurred on by her gasps and moans and when he finally touched the swollen, throbbing flesh, she gave a short cry, her body arching in a spasm of fervour.

Never his gaze left her face, while he kept caressing her, changing rhythm and pressure, until her moans resembled sobs, and stammering his name, she moved against his fingers. Sweat covered his body, his muscles tense in the desperate attempt to hold back. _His! His wife! _

Suddenly her squirming stopped, and she held her breath, no sound escaping her open lips. Her eyes seemed to turn backwards under those closed lids, her back frozen in an arching movement. And then she cried out with a wailing sound, her arms and legs thrashing about, her head digging into the pillow, until with an abrupt move she shoved his hand away. "Stop...no more... I..." Stammering she opened her eyes, her pupils unfocused, her look hazed. She was trembling, her breath irregular and ragged, her body flushed, radiating a heat that was burning him alive. She raised her head, looking at him with such an air of total surprise on her face that it was nearly comical. Cupping her face in both hands, he tenderly kissed her trembling lips, and then he felt her grasp his forearm with unexpected strength. "I...you...need." Still breathless, her voice was nearly unintelligible, but her demand was clear nevertheless.

"Now?" His own voice seemed alien in his ears, raspy and low, and she nodded. "Are you sure?" He wanted her, needed her, his desire bordering on madness, but he knew that he would very likely not be able to hold back and control himself. A wild mixture of contradicting emotions flooded him, hunger, care and fear mingled in a maddening tangle, and then his brain simply stopped functioning, as she moved over in an attempt to shove one leg under his hip to place him between her legs.

Shifting his tense body to comply with her demand, he lowered himself onto her, propping himself on his elbow to keep his weight off her. He felt her thighs clench his hipbones, realizing through a haze of desire that she must have tucked up her legs, and then he entered her. He went slowly, carefully, clenching his teeth, his muscles trembling in the effort to restrain the urge to claim her moist tightness, to sheath himself in one powerful stoke. And then he found himself blocked. _Béma let this be easy! _Probing deeper he noticed that the obstruction yielded a little but it still persisted._ He needed to go on, he needed her, he needed... _He realized he was clinging on the brink of passion, ready to tumble down any moment and he knew that he would not be able to stop. He wanted her more than he ever had thought possible, and yet he could not erase the thought from his mind that the fulfilment he yearned for would cause her pain.

"Don't stop." Her voice was low but urgent. He did not know when he had closed his eyes, but now he opened them, searching her face, her eyes, needing the assurance of her passion.

"I will hurt you." He groaned in the consciousness that he would and nevertheless delight in what would cause her pain. Her hands on his shoulders, she shook her head, and as he pushed forwards, she raised her pelvis in a sudden movement, meeting his stroke with a determined push. He heard her suck in her breath with a hissing sound as he broke through, and sliding deeper into her, he felt her stiffen, her nails digging into his shoulders. His heart hammering like it wanted to break his ribcage, he waited, held back, his mind a whirling pool of darkest heat. It lasted not more than a second till he felt the utter tenseness of her body ebbing away, her hands stroking over his shoulders.

"Lothíriel… Love... I need to go on." His voice was hoarse, a groan rather than coherent speech.

"Come." A soft whisper, thick with emotion, sweet, cooing, calling out to his heart … With a groan he sheathed himself completely, all his sensed filled by her, her tightness enveloping him. "Stop, please, stay." Her whispering was urgent and he froze.

"Do you hurt?" _He knew the answer! How could he feel so utterly blissful, causing her pain?_

Her hands went to the nape of his neck, pulling him close. "No. No, Éomer." Her voice was breathless, trembling, her fingers winding their way into his hair. "I don't hurt. It's just so...Stay. I need ..." She swallowed. "It will never be like this again, feeling you for the very first time. I want to remember."

_For the very first time.._.In a rush of possessiveness he realized it was him who had gone where no man before him had been, and no man would ever go as long as he lived. And then he felt her tighten around his sheathed member. Slowly, with increasing pressure, as if she was trying out muscles she had not used up to now, relishing in the newly discovered possibility. Clenching her shoulders, he threw back his head, groaning out her name. He did not hear her gasp, his entire being concentrated on the incredible feeling, desperately fighting the urge to move, to pound into her. Hanging between regret and relief he felt her relax, but just as he heaved a breath, her lips touched his ear, her breath hot on his sweat-covered skin. "Take me. Now."

He lasted but two strokes before spilling into her, he collapsed on top of her, limp in a haze of bliss. Coming to his senses, he found her arms and legs pulled up around him, her heels digging into his buttocks. He realised that he was lying on top of her with his entire weight and rolled away, taking her with him. She clung to him, nuzzling into the hair on his chest, and giving a low regretful sigh as he slipped out of her.

He still felt dazed. Dazed and sated in a way he never had thought possible before. His limbs and lids heavy, he felt her snuggle into his arms and buried his face in the tangled mass of her hair. "I'm sorry I hurt you, Love."

She lifted her head and snorted. "Don't be a fool. It was all right for me. It was perfect. Me having a maidenhead was not your fault, and I know you did not want to hurt me." Caressing his face she continued, her voice holding a trace of awe, as if she still found it difficult to believe what had happened between them. "Do not think I did not realise how much you cared for me, considered me when waiting for me and holding back." She shook her head. "I needed the feeling of you wanting me. I noticed you held back, and it helped a lot. It did not hurt half as much as I expected, and..." She blushed profoundly. "You considered me first."

Éomer swallowed as the image of her rapt face, her squirming body rose before his inner eye. Burying her face in the bend of his neck, she whispered into his ear, her voice soft and yet with a taint of the passion she had displayed under his apt hands. "It was bliss, Éomer. So unexpected, so different from..." Her voice petered out as she snuggled closer.

Éomer felt as if someone had slapped him._ Different from what...who? _Trying to suppress the jealousy that roared up inside him, he stiffened. It did not help that he told himself that she had come to _him, _preferred him.

"Éomer?" With a guilty conscience he realised that she had sensed his tenseness and was looking at him enquiringly. He avoided her gaze, trying to compose himself, but he could not ignore the cold lump manifesting itself in his stomach. He scolded himself for being an idiot, and yet he felt his mind boggle at the thought that anyone else had seen her in the throes of passion, had caused her to lose herself likewise.

With a pang he felt her wriggling out of his embrace, and when he finally looked at her, it was she who averted her face, hurt and disappointment showing clearly in her features. He heaved a deep breath. He loved her, he respected her, he..._ Why in Morgoth's name was he jealous? Where had that nasty feeling come from? He had to overcome it_. Tentatively he touched her shoulder. "Lothíriel..."

He never got a chance to continue. Swivelling round, she jabbed her forefinger in his solar plexus, her lips trembling, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, but nevertheless blazing fury being the foremost emotion displayed on her face. "You kept telling me all these months in your letters that the Mark was different from Gondor, that men and women were equals in need and passion, and here you are, frowning like any pompous Gondorean. Do you expect me to be ashamed of myself? I'm not! Why, Éowyn told me to do it, and she is a woman of the Mark."

"Éowyn?" _Béma, what had that nuisance of a sister to do with this? _

"Yes, Éowyn." Her anger no way spent, she nodded. "She said that men are doing it all the time, so why should a woman not have the right to do it."

_This could not be!_ He clenched his fists in a futile attempt to control his ire. How could she have allowed anybody to touch her after their betrothal? And then it hit him like a bolt: _Edith! Did Lothíriel know of his stupidity at Céapham? Was this her way to pay him back for it? _He dismissed the thought as fast as it had come up. She would have thrown her fury at his misconduct right into his face, not tried to get back on him like that.

Looking straight at him, Lothíriel must have realised his inner commotion, for raising her hands in a gesture that showed her anger as well as her helplessness, she shook her head. "Éomer Éomund's son, for all the Valar's sake, don't you tell me you've never touched yourself."

"I…what?" He stared at her, unable to immediately follow her train of thought.

She folded her arms in front of her chest, her attitude rather stubborn than angry now. "Yes, I did. And I knew that at least in Gondor it would be called wanton, but I did not think one minute that _you_ would reprimand me for it."

_It seemed this woman had the gift to make himself feel like a complete idiot over and over_. He sighed, realising that it was rather himself behaving like a complete idiot. Tucking one of her errant strands behind her ear, he looked into her eyes. "Lothíriel, I got you completely wrong. I thought you had… You were telling me that…someone else..."

"What?" Her face clearly showed her utter bafflement. "Éomer, how could you? How could I wish for any other man to touch me after having felt your passion that afternoon in the garden?

Éomer blushed sheepishly, but then relief took over. Relief and the glorious feeling that it was him she wanted. That their love and need were mutual. Smiling, he caressed her cheek. "So you remembered me?"

Her gaze softened and she nodded. "You know I did. And I thought of you and the way I had felt when you had kissed me in the garden when I..." A sudden blush sprang into her cheeks but she never lowered her eyes.

_Skipflota cwen! Fearless and bold. _How he admired her! Pulling her close, he felt the last of her tension evaporate. "I remembered you as well. Your boldness, your ecstasy..." _And yet he had been __an idiot._ He knew, and he knew the more when recalling her total abandon, the trust she had presented him with. The feeling of guilt welled up inside him. He had to tell her, try to explain.

"Lothíriel ...I...When I came back to the Mark from Dol Amroth I... I went to see Erkenbrand of the Westmark. And I stopped at Céapham... I..."

Smiling, she laid one finger across his lips. "Shh..., don't you say it, Éomer. Some things do happen. I have three brothers, and I do not want to know." He blinked. _Could it be...?_ Cupping his face with both hands, she softly kissed his lower lip. "There was continual coming and going in the camp of the carpenters and a lot of talk between Rohan's and Gondor's craftsmen about the granaries, and some carvings and some king's behaviour..."

Éomer swallowed. _She knew, had known all the time... But she did not know about his reluctance, his fear. How could she understand?_ He did not like being compared to any Gondoreans, even if they were Imrahil's sons. He had not desired to lay with Edith, had merely done what his men had expected him to do, not...

"Éomer?"

Worried grey eyes were looking at him. _Béma, what a profound moron he was to try and vindicate his behaviour, his weakness. And had not that fit of jealousy right now been weakness, too? _He heaved a deep breath, gently caressing her face. "I've been an idiot, Lothíriel, and I know it."

He lay back and pulled her close, covering both of them with the blankets. With a sigh she snuggled into him, her head on his chest, one arm and one leg thrown over his body. His arms around her, he cradled her to him. And breathing deep, he closed his eyes. _They would manage to find their own way._

**annotations:**

**scipflota:** (Old English) pirate

**cwen: ** (Old English) princess, queen

**Many, many thanks to Lady Bluejay for helping me with the language.**

I know I should feel guilty for last week's cliffhanger, but I won't lie: I enjoyed it profoundly! From the very beginning of this story I have been thinking of writing the ultimate cliffy... And perhaps it will make it easier for all to face the fast-approaching end of this story. There will be one more chapter and an epilogue... And then it will have taken me an entire year.

I would like to thank those of you who reviewed as guests, as I have not thanked you personally, and I hope that for all of you who were miffed by the cliffy this chapter was some kind of compensation. ;)#

And special thanks for the flame in Elvish. I have always wanted to be cursed and called an orc-offspring. And as for being killed by a balrog: I don't mind, Germany is a bit cold at the moment anyway. But you should have PET on your mind though, because that spider you want to eat me might suffer from obstipation as a consequence, and that would get you into real trouble with the animal protectors. ;)


	44. Chapter 44

**Chapter 44**

He woke well before dawn the next morning due to the mundane urge of a full bladder, but one glance at the sleeping woman beside him brought back the night's glorious feeling with an overwhelming assault. _His wife. _All the candles in the room had burned out except the one at the foot of the bed, but the light sufficed to distinguish her peaceful features framed by a wild tangle of half-undone braids and errant strands of black hair. One thin wisp lay across her face, moving slightly with every breath. She had fallen asleep only minutes after the elimination of their misunderstanding, snuggled into his chest, contented and exhausted, and the evenness of her breath had caused him to doze off as well.

How sweet and irenic she seemed now, but what a dance of passion, determination and fury she had led him into last night. _His queen... Lothíriel of the Riddermark now_. The tightening in his groin reminded him he had better get out of bed before his arousal made passing water quite a task. He slowly moved to the edge of the bed, chuckling silently, as with some unintelligible mumbling she rolled over into the space he had just emptied. Clutching his pillow and nuzzling into it, she went on sleeping with a happy sigh.

He stretched till his joints cracked, and yawned. Life was good, and it would get even better when he was back in bed, waking her gently. What a bullshit all these old men had sold him, frightening him unnecessarily. _Béma, the way she had responded to him! _Bold, reckless, without any reserve. His incredible pirate, his warrior with the creamy skin. He walked over to the privy, soon realising that he was in more than urgent need of a wash. Having lit one of the spare candles, he poured himself some water, lathered a washcloth … and stopped dead.

From his groin down to his knee ran a broad smear of blood, some of it having trickled towards the inner side of his thigh, leaving dried streaks across the big muscle. He gulped. How could she have bled that much? And she had been fine afterwards, showing no sign of pain or weakness, quite on the contrary she had dressed him down for his idiotic assumptions like a battle-tested Rider. And she certainly was sleeping peacefully, looking healthy. He shook himself, and scrubbing the washcloth determinedly over his thigh, he tried to push his misgivings aside.

Yet when he entered the bedroom again he silently tiptoed to the bed, candle in hand, to look carefully and check for any sign of indisposition. But she looked a good healthy colour, and when she turned in her sleep, the covers slid off her shoulder, baring the tempting softness of a cream-coloured breast and a very pert dark-rose nipple. He felt his member stir again but nevertheless he decided to let her sleep till she woke of her own accord. He would then see from her behaviour if all was really well.

Placing the candle on the bedside table, he went over to the window and opened the heavy curtains. The sky was still dark, a star-embroidered blanket enveloping the fears and desires of mortals, and over the ridges of the Ered Nimrais rode a waxing moon. He did not register how long he had been staring out into the night before he turned to the hearth. Blowing the embers alive, he added smaller pieces of kindling and soon the fire was burning merrily, warmth filling the room. He could not help a smile. She would wake in a warm room, and should she still feel cold, he knew quite an effective way to make her feel hot.

"Éomer?" Her voice was sleepy, and her gaze did not find him at once when she finally sat up in bed, shoving her tangles out of her face.

A few steps brought him to her side, and sitting down on the edge of the large four-poster, he pulled her close and kissed the tip of her nose. "How is my lady wife?"

She grinned and after a futile attempt to nip his lower lip she set her teeth to his larynx, the soft graze causing his throat to go dry. "She's fine, my lord husband." Snuggling into him, her arms went around his midriff. There certainly was nothing wrong with her, and yet he needed to hear her confirm it. "You don't feel sore, Dear?"

"Sore?" He could feel her chuckle vibrating against his chest. "No, Love, not sore. Just happy, sticky and very hungry."

He felt like whooping out loud, joy rushing though him like liquid sunrays. "I'm afraid there is only cold water, but if you wait I'll get someone to fetch you some warm and a decent breakfast."

She shook her head. "Never mind, cold will do, as I intend to come back to a warm bed afterwards and I'm sure that my husband will think it his duty to warm me. But something to eat would be most welcome." She managed a deadpan expression, raising one eyebrow in mock deprecation as Éomer doubled over with laughter.

"Take the candle then and clean up. I'll go to hunt for some breakfast." Letting go of her, he slipped into his breeches, not bothering with the rest of his clothes, and left the room. When he entered the small guard-room next to the side-entrance, three guards stood to attention, leaving their game of dice on the rough table. Motioning with his head towards the door, Éomer addressed the youngest guard. "Céorl, go to the kitchen and get someone to bring me some breakfast." Saluting, the guard rushed off, and only when Éomer turned to leave the room did he see the other two exchange a knowing grin out of the corner of his eye. Walking back to his rooms, Éomer himself could not help a grin. Perhaps even for a barbaric king it was a smidgeon out of the ordinary to demand breakfast in the middle of the night…his wedding night of all nights.

The bedroom had already warmed up a little, the fire in the hearth burning brightly, and placing them carefully, Éomer added some larger split logs. They would kindle much slower than the small ones he had put on first, but they would keep the fire going for hours. He felt his body react to the thought what he himself would like to be doing those next hours, when Lothíriel came out of the dressing room. Shivering with cold, she nevertheless sported a mischievous grin as she walked over to him. Expecting her to step into his embrace, he waited, but she stopped at the opposite side of the hearth, reaching out her hands over the flames. "That water was really cold, but I see you know how to kindle fire."

_And so do you, wife._ He could not take his eyes off her, obviously exactly what she intended. The tongues of the flames cast a quick change of red and shadow over her naked body, causing her creamy skin to glow rosy and moulding her curves in a mysterious way at the same time. How beautiful she was, his pirate queen! He let his eyes range over her form, feasting on the contrast of softness and strength displayed before him. How proudly she held that slender neck, yet how tender was the skin of her throat. Her skin, smelling of sunshine and spices, so soft to his touch, his lips. And yet there were muscles under that skin, prominent in the shape of her thighs, the strong frame of her shoulders, her sinewy arms … the shoulders and arms of an archer. Desire, the urge to feel these arms around him, flooded him._ Skipflota cwen_... Long limbed she was and slender, and yet there was that roundness that drove him crazy. The tempting swelling of her breasts that seemed to be made to fit into his cupped hands, those nipples, dark in the flickering light, beckoning to him to be caressed. And though her hips did not flare, they were distinct and well rounded. His gaze went down to her belly, to that tiny pouch shaped like a half-moon below her navel and recalling that softness pressing against his throbbing member, he felt his arousal rebelling against the confinement of his breeches. His pulse sped up. _How that delicious triangle allured him, its jet-black curls shimmering, hiding the haven of his need and desire …_

"Have you finished or shall I turn round so you can gape at my backside as well?" Her voice was sparkling with mirth, and for a split second he felt tempted to tell her to turn.

"I'm not gaping, Wife, I'm admiring. That is quite a difference and I deem it my right and duty as your husband." He tried in vain to pull a haughty face, her mirth was simply contagious. "Besides, my dear, you are welcome to look as well."

She snorted, her gaze gliding over the visible bulge in his breeches. "I would say, my dear husband, that my sight is somewhat hampered, though I have been warned not to look, lest I might get frightened."

Chuckling he went around the hearth, and pulling her close, he kissed the tip of her ear that peeped out of the wild tangle of her hair. "But look you did last night, Skipflota Cwen, and it did not seem to be fear that you felt."

Her fingers combed though the hair on his chest. "No," she smiled, "certainly not."

He could not resist the temptation, and softly nipping the tip of her ear, he whispered: "So will you tell me what you felt, Lothíriel?" Her body tensed, and when she pushed both her hands against his chest and took half a step backwards he regretted his approach, fearing his demand had been too bold.

"What I felt?" Her voice was thoughtful, and she did not look at him. Unnerved he took her hand, wanting to stop her pondering, when suddenly she looked him right in the eye. "What I felt, you want to know? Lust, Éomer, lust I would have found difficult to control if I had wanted to. Lust and something deeper, darker, some possessiveness bordering on greed, when I imagined that I was to feel all that inside me."

He had already taken a few strides towards the bed, when his brain registered that he had swept her up, crushing her against his body, and when he lowered her onto the bed, he nearly tumbled on top of her in his eagerness. Stepping back, he looked down at her in the dimness of the room. The flames of the hearth and the one candle on the chest at the foot of the bed drew interweaving shadows on the ceiling, and only little light reached her enticing body. His eyes found hers, dark pools in the pale oval of her face. He breathed deep, trying to muster some restraint and force his brain to function again. They had time, he did not need to charge like some maddened bull, though maddening she certainly was. And any time someone would come with the breakfast he had ordered. Slowly he pulled the covers over her, tucking her in. "Let the fire warm the room a bit more, Love."

She nestled down in the blankets, giving him a mischievous smile. "Are you not joining me? I'm sure I would warm up much faster."

"I am sure you certainly would." Smiling, he stroked her cheek and then bent over her to kiss her softly. "You would get that warm that you would set me ablaze. But don't you worry, you will get your chance, but first I want you to have some breakfast. You said you were very hungry, so it is my duty as a faithful and loving husband to appease your hunger." He saw her lips twitch with suppressed laughter, and playfully nipped her bottom lip. "Yes, my lady wife, and be sure, I intend to appease any kind of hunger you feel, but first things first. I don't want you to flag due to starvation."

She giggled and one of her hands sneaked out from under the covers and grabbed his. "I'll eat you." Biting his fingers softly, she gave him a challenging glance. "Don't underestimate the stamina of a pirate, Éomer King."

Before he could reply, there was a knock at the door, and opening it, Éomer found himself facing Ymma, who carried a tray brimming with all kinds of food. "It's just some leftovers from the feast, some pies, cold meats and cheese, Sire, and some ale, as there is no fresh bread yet and the fire is still banked up. But if you are content to wait a bit, I can bring you some porridge and tea as well."

Taking the tray from her, Éomer shook his head. "That will do, Ymma, thank you. I don't expect hot porridge in the middle of the night. Go to bed again, there will be much work in the morning with all the guests." She left, and kicking the door shut with his heel, he watched his wife sitting up, peering at the tray. He placed it on her lap and took the well-filled tankard and put it on the bedside table before he sat down on the edge of the bed. "I'm afraid you'll have to make do with ale, Dear, but I assure you, it's a very Rohirric way to start the day."

She laughed, reaching for one of the cold fruit pies. "Éowyn told me so, though she is not very fond of breakfast-ale. But this tray would be enough to feed an entire Éored! The kitchen staff must certainly think we are in need of a lot of energy."

Éomer chuckled. "They certainly do. But then you promised quite a lot, though unintended."

She laughed out loud, nearly choking on the bite of pie and Éomer handed her the tankard. Taking a hearty swig, she passed the ale back to him. "Yet not all your men were really convinced that I would be up to the promise. But I think that opinion might have changed." Taking another bite, she grinned mischievously. "At least when your stable master saw me dismount, he told one of the hands to go and double his wager. He jumped quite a bit when I asked him in Rohirric to give my gelding an apple if one could be found in Edoras." Still grinning, she tilted her head. "I do not know what exactly they are betting on, but I do think I must have made quite an impression if they think me a safe bank."

This time it was Éomer who needed a draught. _This woman was simply incredible._ Reaching for a slice of cold venison, he joined his wife eating, and for a short while they just chewed contentedly, passing the tankard to and fro between them. Finally Lothíriel leaned back with a sigh of satisfaction. "That was just what I needed. I can't say why I was so hungry, but it simply was delicious. As small children Amrothos and I used to dive down into the kitchens first thing after any feast, to recoup on the left-overs for not being allowed to participate in the feast itself."

Setting the visibly plundered tray on the floor, Éomer stripped and got under the covers. Her body was warm and enticing and for a moment he simply rejoiced in cradling her in his arms, only to notice that his body obviously had a mind of its own. He felt her gasp as his erection started to poke against her, and softly kissed her face. "Easy, Love, we have time. This will be much better for you than last night, I promise."

She propped her head up on one hand, and looking down at his smiling face, she let her fingers slide through his beard in a soft caress. "Only for me?" Seeing his surprise, she lightly shook her head. "Do you really think I did not notice what effort it cost you last night to hold back and not lose control over yourself?"

His eyes widened in surprise. _Had he really been that obvious? _Her face was serious and calm, no smile crinkling the corners of her mouth, but her eyes shone with a profound happiness that stunned him. "You considered me all the time, even well before we went to our rooms. You had but two tankards of ale … while at the same time you tried to urge me to drink some more to ease my nervousness." She smiled, and bent down to kiss his brow and then her head came to rest on his chest. "And you were so concerned not to hurt me and did everything to ease the pain. You waited for me, let me set the pace like you promised the very first day we met." Her hands went up to his shoulders and then around his neck, as she snuggled into him. "You made me feel loved and cherished, covetable and so incredibly … female."

He closed his eyes, feeling her words setting his entire being ablaze. An enchantress she was, and like in her letters, her words worked magic. She kissed his throat, her teeth nipping his larynx. "Last night you considered me, filled me with joy and happiness, today let me consider you."

He looked up into her face, merely discernible in the shadow of her hair. "You considered me more than you know, Lothíriel, not holding back, and as you felt loved and cherished, so did I."

"It is just so incredible that you did everything right, it was just so perfect, so ... I don't know, as it is more than I can catch in words." She sighed and buried her face in the bend of his neck. "She had told me what to do, what to tell you, and assured me you would consider me, but I just could not. Had you not known, I don't know what would have happened as I would never have dared... "

His hair was standing on end as he realised that he could not make head or tail of what she was saying. _Not again!_ _Not another one of these ridiculous humiliating misunderstandings! _But what he understood with profound embarrassment was that she praised him for something he had done without him having any clue what it was. And who was "she"? Éowyn? Or that woman who had talked to her about men liking sceaftpipian, whatever the word was in the Common Speech? And what if that woman was Éowyn? For a split second he felt dizzy, but then his mind was clear again. Whatever it cost him, he would not start his marital life in ambiguity.

"Lothíriel?" Slowly he cupped her face in both of his hands. "I hate to disappoint you, and I highly enjoy your praise, but I don't know what you are praising me for. And who is _she_?"

"Oh." A mere breath, and her eyes went wide with surprise. She swallowed, and then she moved away, sitting up beside him and he felt all of a sudden cold and bereft.

"You do not know? But then how come you did... " Disbelieving she shook her head. "_She_ is Mareth, a friend of Éowyn's, a Gondorean healer. Don't you know her? She worked in the Houses of Healing during the war."

Éomer shook his head. "The only Gondorean healer I remember is Ioreth, and I'm pretty sure she is no friend of Éowyn's." The idea of the more than talkative Ioreth being friends with Éowyn made Lothíriel chuckle.

"No, Éomer, Mareth is very different from Ioreth." The chuckle changed into some kind of snorting laughter. "You had best ask Grimboern."

"Grimboern?" What had Eorthwela's father to do with that healer? He had lost the lower part of his left arm in the war and later belonged to the Rohirric contingent that went with Éowyn to Ithilien, but... It slowly dawned on him. "So said healer is the reason why Grimboern was so eager to move to Ithilien?"

Still chuckling, she nodded. "He is very persistent, you know, and there are wagers up amongst the Rohirrim as to when he will succeed, no one doubting _that _he will." Getting the better of her mirth, she explained: "Mareth had been married for several years, but her husband divorced her for being barren. Well, Grimboern being a widower with grown-up children made clear that he wanted her, barren or not, to be his wife, and I dare say she likes him a lot, but she is just too proud to tell him. Most of the Riders bet she will give in before the end of the year, but Éowyn put a pretty high wager on it being as early as midsummer."

Éomer groaned. It seemed his sister was keeping up quite a trace of Rohirric peculiarities in Ithilien. "And that woman told you what?"

"Oh, well … She is a healer, you know. And we had a talk, me being a bit nervous and downcast after…" She stopped, hugging her arms around her knees. "Anyway, I talked to her, that is: She talked to me, seeing that I was uneasy, and she told me that if I was sure you would consider me, I should try and tell… No, rather…prompt you to...well…to touch me. I mean..." She blushed so furiously that he could see it even in the prevailing dimness. Heaving a deep breath, she went on with a much steadier voice. "She explained to me, that if a woman…climaxed…her muscles and tissues were…well, somehow eased or softened. So when a virgin… Well, the maidenhead would break much easier and more painlessly if she had climaxed first, though it might cause some stronger bleeding, but she assured me that was no problem at all."

Éomer blinked. _So that was the reason for the blood smear down his thigh._ He sat up and took her hands. "Lothíriel, I did not know. I touched you because I wanted to, and you wanted me to, and because it was wonderful. And I did not claim you afterwards because I thought it useful to do it right then because it would cause you less pain but because you told me you wanted me to and I would have gone mad otherwise. I needed you. There is nothing to praise me for."

She looked at him thoughtfully, and then shook her head. "Perhaps you are right, and you did not know, but nevertheless you did everything that made it easy and wonderful for me." She slowly pulled his hands to her face, resting her cheek on them. "You say you would have gone mad, and yet you waited for me when I needed you to. Nay, Éomer, you may not have known, but you did the right thing because you considered me and my needs. Because you cared."

Pulling her down to him, he kissed the crown of her head. He had to know, though he dreaded the answer. "Lothíriel, just one more thing: Why were you nervous and downcast? What had happened?"

For a while she just snuggled into his chest, but then she wriggled out of his embrace, her features determined, and started to talk. "I had just been stupid, Éomer, abominably stupid and I was so shocked and ashamed of what I had come to know."

He held his breath, determined not to jump on any premature assumptions this time. Sensing his tension, she swallowed, but plodded on nevertheless. "When I was in Minas Tirith, I went to see the Lady Wilwarin incognito."

Éomer waited, but she did not continue, as if by uttering that name she had said everything that was necessary. So he finally asked: "Do you expect me to know that lady?"

"You don't?" Surprise and disbelief were clear in her voice. "But she is _the _courtesan of Minas Tirith. The nobles and rich merchants queue up for her favours and..."

He snorted. "I don't like standing in a queue and there certainly was no reason for that when we came back victorious from the Black Gate." He wished he could make his words unsaid the moment he had uttered them, but she just laughed.

"No, certainly not. Mareth told me that more than two hundred children were born last year whose mothers claimed and confirmed that the fathers are Rohirrim, and not few of them are said to have left for Rohan, while the others seem to be well supported by the crown. King Elessar obviously understands how important offspring are for any Rohir."

Éomer nodded. "He lived many years in the Mark, serving under Thengel King, before he went to Gondor as Thorongil. He surely knows about our traditions and beliefs." He stroked her cheek. "I just don't understand why in Morgoth's name you went to a courtesan."

"I told you: Because I was stupid." Averting her eyes, she continued: "I wanted to know how to please you, I… I wanted to be all the women you would ever desire."

He nearly choked._ Béma's horse! To please him! … And that she thought to learn from a courtesan? _And jet he was impressed by her courage and determination to tackle anything she thought to be necessary.

She did not notice his agitation, too preoccupied with her own embarrassment. "I told her, I was going to get married soon and wanted to know what my husband might like." She gave a mirthless laugh. "And she understood that I wanted to come to know all the tricks to manipulate my husband to…to sway him." She shook her head. "I had never believed that anything like that was possible. It was so... mechanical, so heartless. She told me how to play-act, to feign passion … In the end I was so mixed up … But then Mareth talked to me… And she made me see some of the things Wilwarin had told me in a different light, but still..." She looked straight into his face. "Éomer, I'm neither stupid nor naïve. I know that men go there, knowing the "lady" play-acts and pay for her performance. But to..."

Pulling her back into his embrace with one resolute movement, he stopped her explanations, claiming her mouth in a thorough kiss, and though for a split second she seemed intent on resisting, she soon kissed him back with the same fervour. When they broke the kiss, she buried her face in the bend of his neck with a contented sigh. "I would not have been able to fake anything last night, even if I had intended to."

"Don't let her upset you, Lothíriel. She has her mind on her profession, and men to her are customers that bring coin…or presents of veritable price. Hers is the world of tricks, how was she to expect someone like you?" One of his hands went down her back in soothing circles while the other one tenderly pushed the unruly tangles behind her ear. "You are my wife, Lothíriel, my queen, my love. There is no need for you to know any tricks to please me. Your willingness to do so pleases me more than anything that lady could have taught you." He kissed the tender spot right behind her ear. "Lothíriel," he whispered, "we will find out together how to please each other. We will find _our_ way." Smiling he let his forefinger trail down her body, from the soft skin of her throat down the valley between her breasts, to her belly, circling around her navel, and finally stopping at the touch of her springy curls, as he felt her body going tense.

And then her finger touched his throat, slid down his chest, down…mimicking his action, till the digit reached his erection. Without hesitation she continued, only her forefinger softly trailing his length, till she reached his pubic hair. Bending her head back, she looked into his face enquiringly, her bottom lip sucked in between her teeth. And then ever so slowly she let her other fingers follow, encircling his member in a soft caress. His breath hitched, and he saw the tension fade out of her face, her lips now curling in a happy smile. Covering her hand with his large one, he slowly moved it up and then down again, never averting his eyes from her smiling face.

"Does that feel the same as when you touch me?" She tilted her head a bit, reminding him of some curious little bird. He chuckled, bringing her hand to a stop.

"I don't know exactly what you feel when I touch you, Love, but it feels good, very good. And therefore you had better stop." Pulling her hand up, he kissed her palm, her wrist. "I want this to last longer than last night, much longer."

A frown appeared right over the root of her nose. "I shortened your pleasure last night, didn't I?"

He could not help a smile and softly puffed into her ear. "Yes, my wife, you certainly did." His hands caressed her body while his mouth trailed down to her throat. "You shortened my pleasure by increasing it to unbelievable bliss. So I hope you will take pity on me this morning, because how can I live without that pleasure and your love, now that I know that it's there for me?"

She thoughtfully shook her head. "No, Éomer. I certainly will not take pity on you, for you deserve more than pity. And to know you love me and want me makes me love and want you more than I can say."

His hands covered hers, and it took him some effort to speak, the emotion that filled him nearly choking him. "Then, Lothíriel, we are certainly blessed, because it is said that when passion is combined with love, not only our bodies merge, but we open our souls to each other undisguised, naked and pure."

**annotations:**

**skipflota cwen: **(Old English/Rohirric) pirate princess/queen

**sceaftpipian: (**Rohirric/Old English) This word does not really exist. It is an invention of Lialathuveril, who rightfully pointed out that "blow-job" sounded too modern. ;-)

**sceaft:** (Old English/Rohirric) shaft, stem

**pipian:** (Old English/Rohirric) pipe/blow, play an instrument.


	45. Chapter 45

EPILOGUE

Éomer woke, confused about where he was and what had woken him, his mind still lingering in the embrace of a dream. _The plains... _It took him a moment to realise that he was not out in the open, but in his bed at Meduseld. A slight breeze drifted in through the open windows, heavy with the smell of honeysuckle. The end of May was near and soon spring would give way to summer. The end of May... Any day now they were expecting the news from Emyn Arnen, announcing Éowyn's delivery. _His little sister would be a mother... perhaps already was a mother._

He turned over to pull his wife close and try to go to sleep again only to find Lothíriel's side of the bed empty. Obviously she had risen to go to the privy and her stirring had caused him to wake. He could not help a grin, imagining how she would come back soon, and slipping under the covers would snuggle up to him for his body heat. The nights were still coolish, and he knew how much she hated the cold.

Perhaps pretending to be asleep, just to see what she would do, was not a bad idea at all. He stretched, and reaching for her pillow, buried his face in it, inhaling the smell of her hair that clung to it. _I left my smell on your pillow... Béma, she had really made things hard, writing him letters like that. _He sighed contentedly. How could life provide such bliss? They had been married for not fully three months yet, but the changes that had taken place in his life were profound.

Never before had he felt this content and optimistic. And it was that optimism that was the most stunning change. It was not that he did things differently from how he had done them before nor did the problems he had to deal with differ at all, but where in the past he had faced his and the Mark's future with stubborn endurance and a feeling of duty, he now felt joy and eagerness. With Lothíriel at his side he could not only do what was necessary for the Mark, they would also be able to change and better things.

He knew well enough that as much as she liked living in the Mark there were things she was not content with, but she was intelligent enough not to throw her opinion in the people's face. As far as that went she was very much like Éowyn...and as far as gardening went, too. It was a pity that they had not been able to make their tour of the Eastfold while the small tulips of the steppe had been blooming on the downs of the Eastemnet, but Aragorn had been right with his suggestion to better use the fact that the lords of the Riddermark had been present at Edoras for general negotiations. More so, as a certain tension between the different fractions had been perceptible under the thin layer of politeness during the days of the wedding festivities.

He knew that despite the considerable support from Gondor not all lords of the Mark were convinced their king was doing the right thing, though few would utter their discontent openly. There were those who were miffed about him taking a Gondorean wife while they had daughters of marriageable age. Éomer saw little possibilities of appeasing them, save to make them realise that he had married for love and not for political calculation, but he did not fool himself: No matter how obvious his love for his queen was, to the great amusement of the lower ranks, those lords and most probably their daughters too would only see what they wanted to see and would be difficult to sway. Fortunately they were but a small group anyway.

Of much more importance were those who feared Gondorean influences on the ways of the Mark. With them it certainly helped that Gondor's king spoke their language. And it paid off that Aragorn and Imrahil had come with an entourage of Gondorean warriors who had fought side by side with the Eorlingas on the Pelennor and in front of the Black Gate. Not to talk about Erchirion, who had merged into his Éored over the last months with utmost dedication in all aspects, save the language.

Éomer could not grasp that his friend and brother still had picked up so little of the language of the Mark. How could it be that siblings differed that profoundly? While Erchirion, though he had quite a large vocabulary, was not able to utter more than basic phrases, Lothíriel spoke nearly fluently. When they had been closeted with Eáldread, preparing for the first council meeting Lothíriel had been supposed to participate in as Queen of the Mark, she had insisted in them talking the language of the Mark to her, thus giving her a chance to find out if she was able to understand them.

Éomer grinned, remembering Eáldread and himself staring at each other with open mouths when she had commented on their statements in Rohirric, not only making clear that she had understood, but even using the correct phrasing and register when stating her opinion. She still worked regularly on her language skills with the help of Beorhtraed and old Maerec. Only during their three sennights out on the plains had she skipped her lessons, but even then she had shown her interest, picking up typical expressions and phrases concerning the herds. And had not Lady Mildred told him that she encouraged her ladies to sing the old songs and teach her the lyrics while they were assembled with their needlework in the queen's solar? The lyrics, not the melody.

Éomer chuckled, remembering his utter surprise when he had found out that Lothíriel could not sing the most simple song staying in tune. She did not play any instrument either, despite Dol Amroth being famous for her harpists. She liked songs and she loved music, and the smile that flitted over her face when she heard the jubilating tunes of the fiddle were certainly genuine, but her own practical skills were definitely non-existent.

That could have been a severe handicap to a people whose traditions were mainly passed on in song, but Lothíriel had found the right way to deal with it with that uncanny knack of hers. She had never tried to hide her inability, mocking herself and at the same time expressing her regret. This frankness had earned her the open sympathy and even admiration of the commoners, though it had also led to another verse being added to the bawdy hymns on the royal couple.

The queen she cannot sing in tune

The King he doesn't huff

For when at night he's shagging her

She's singing well enough.

It had earned the young Rider who had been caught teaching it to the stable lads three weeks of latrine duty in the barracks. Éomer had been informed by Éothain, who had known as usual, and it had cost him quite an amount of self-restraint to abstain from giving the twit a good thrashing.

Remembering, he folded his arms behind his head. He was sure Lothíriel knew about the songs, as she very fast had managed to gather a close circle of reliable people who would inform her about everything going on. Lady Mildred had been the first of the ladies to support her and the old counsellor's wife still was the closest of the noble women of Edoras to her while Frithuswith had a leading function as far as the commoners were concerned.

Though gradually dropping out of the practical running of the royal household with Ymma stepping into her place without any fuss, Frithuswith was still involved with everything concerning the queen. Éomer stretched contentedly, grinning at the thought of how well his wife and the trusted housekeeper got on together. And he felt that Frithuswith finally got the love and care she deserved for having dealt it out freely to not only the royal family throughout her long life.

Her dress had been ready in April, and the last week of that month Master Calimab had come back to Edoras in the company of his eldest grandson, determined to show the Dragon of Meduseld that love knew no age. She had looked splendid in dove-grey, and Éomer had been surprised how the colour underlined her features and bearing. That old Greybeard certainly had known why he had selected that hue. She had been a beautiful and proud bride, and that Gondorean peacock had beamed as if he had won the prize of his life which according to Éomer's opinion he certainly had.

It had been a splendid feast, as Éomer had been generous with food and ale for all of Edoras, and the kitchen staff had decked their marital bed with flowers, nearly causing the battle-steeled captain of Meduseld's kitchen to cry with emotion.

And then Lothíriel and he had been off to the Eastfold. He grinned, remembering the sensation of riding at her side, galloping over the plains. _How that woman sat a horse! _He felt the familiar tightening in his groin at the thought of her muscular thighs, her laughter as she sped forward, bending low over her gelding's neck, outrunning Firefoot to the amazement and admiration of his guard. Éomer snorted. That dratted guard had been the only drop of bitterness in his cup of bliss. How he would have liked to ride off with her, out into the vastness of the plains, down to some streamlet to drink after a demanding race, and then to have her there on the mossy banks in a no less demanding way.

Nothing of that was to come true with a guard of twelve around them. He sighed. The journey had been pleasant nevertheless. Lothíriel had been delighted at the sight of the herds, and the herders had been proud to have the royal couple in their camps. The only thing that had puzzled him was how tired Lothíriel had been in the evenings. And not only in the evenings, for more than once he had caught her napping as soon as they took a break or stayed at a camp at noon. Not that he had any reasons to complain, quite the contrary, for she had always woken with him as early as sunrise to give him a very convincing proof that she had recovered and regained her strength and therefore he had never bothered to mention his surprise to her. But thinking of it... There had been some moments of uncertainty amongst them, moments when he had had the feeling she was about to tell him something that occupied her mind, but she never said anything. He raked his teeth through his moustache. Perhaps he was seeing things, being overprotective as Éowyn had always accused him of.

For the first part of the journey Gytha had been with them as they had accompanied the girl to her mother in the Wold, Gytha being determined to select the sheep whose fleeces she saw fit to be used for her Bryd Baelc. She would stay for the shearing and then go back to Aldburg to card and spin before taking up the weaving next winter. She had made up her mind to weave a blanket entirely in different shades of blue, an idea sparked off by the coloured chalks Winfrid had sent. Lady Geliris had promised to help her find the appropriate colours, once she had returned to Gondor, and she had also taken it upon her to see that Gytha's thank-you note would reach Winfrid. He smiled, recalling the genuine friendliness with which Lothíriel's mother had treated his daughter and how eager the girl had been to please her.

A blackbird started his song in one of the bushes outside. Éomer yawned. Dawn did not seem to be too far away. One more month, and they would be visiting the Westfold, though perhaps he should change his plans and go earlier, as Lady Egefride had made clear that she would appreciate getting rid of Airik as soon as possible. And certainly Lothíriel would not mind going a month earlier. Had not she herself pointed out the importance to contact the Dunland villagers as soon as possible to negotiate on the trade of that high-quality salt? And he had to admit it would do him good to see that Airik's little girl really had thrived as much as Lady Egefriede said. It would certainly lay some ghosts to rest. The only thing he wanted to wait for was news from Éowyn...

He had thought not to stop at Céapham but rather take tents with them so they could stay where they wanted on their own, but he would talk about that with Lothíriel, as he was not sure if she perhaps had other plans. _His champion on the battlefield of diplomacy... _She was to decide whether she felt up to staying in the quarters at the inn and facing Edith. And he was not certain if she might not take it as a challenge and a chance to demonstrate her power as his queen and wife. She had given quite an example of her powers at Aldburg.

… _Sweat trickling down his nose, his brow, seeping into his eyes, causing his sight to blur. Sweat covering his entire body like a liquid sheet, making the hilt of the practise-sword slippery despite the leather taping. Thrust, parry... Béma that man is good! Cries from the audience, blurred at the outer edge of his perception as his entire being is concentrated on the fight._

_And then his one and only chance, as the other one loses his footing, stumbles, opens his defence for but a split second. A quick thrust..._

"_Yield."_

They had stood panting for a moment, and he had felt his fingers tremble when he had opened the straps of his helmet._ What a fighter and what a fight! _He had grinned at his opponent, a young man from the Fenmark who had approached Éothain, eager to be taken into the king's service, and who had blushed as the king had slapped his shoulder under the deafening applause of the audience.

Dust had been sticking to Éomer's sweating skin as he had walked over to where his queen had sat on the fence of the practise ground, and when he had reached her she had slid down, an unreadable expression on her face. Unreadable... But he had felt the tension radiating from her body... So close she had been... and the fierceness of the fight still pounding through his veins. And then she had looked him right into the eye and the world around him had fallen away. Slate-grey pools, fathomless and filled with desire...nay, hunger... raw, demanding hunger in an otherwise motionless face.

Seconds had stretched to eternities as he had bathed in these pools, hardly able to control his possessive pride, the urge to have her there and then. _His warrior with the creamy skin, his queen of the challenge! _

"I'll be waiting for you in our rooms." A hoarse whisper, and she had turned away, her head held high, her shoulders squared, her steps powerful and determined, an image of regal pride.

"Sire? Éomer?" Éothain's voice had woken him out of his trance, and wordlessly he had motioned to his friend to help him out of mail and gambeson, had thrown a handful of water into his face and had followed her, not caring for anything that had been going on around him.

When he had opened the door to their room she had been standing there, waiting for him, and the moment he had shoved home the bolt, her robe had slid to the floor, and then she had been in his arms, tearing at his sweat-soaked shirt, stammering out her desire. He never knew how he had got out of his clothes, there had been no thought, no reason left, as the flames of passion enveloped him, them. There had been no tenderness, no time for it, no reason for it as she had flung herself prostrate on the bed, spreading her thighs, begging him to fill her.

_Sweat trickling down his nose, his brow, covering his entire body, making his hands slippery... Her voice... moaning, wailing, begging... Egging him on beyond exhaustion... And then bliss, nothing but ultimate bliss as he tumbles over the brink of passion, taking her with him._

He had come to, feeling the soft breeze on his sweat-covered body, and looking up his gaze had fallen on the window, left open by the servants to let the air of the sunny day warm their room.

They had departed for Edoras the next morning and not stayed long enough to find out what new songs were circulating at Aldburg, but it had cost everyone quite some willpower not to stare when they had turned up in the hall for lunch. But where people had tried to hide their grin when looking at their king, there had been admiration bordering on awe in their eyes when they had looked at Lothíriel.

The throbbing of his erection brought him back to reality, and he stretched with a groan. His wife... tender and fierce, loving and demanding._ Béma, he needed her!_ Confused, he propped himself up on his elbow. What was taking her so long? Could there be anything wrong? Trying to ignore the feeling of unease, he rose and made for the dressing room. There was no noise and when he opened the door, he found the room dark and empty. Hurrying back to the bedroom, he lit a candle to have a closer look. Nothing. He felt the hairs on his nape raise and then he noticed that while her robe was still lying at the foot of the bed his was missing. Could she have gone outside, having become used to the open night skies of the plains to have a look at the stars? He dismissed the idea immediately but having donned breeches and shirt, he went to check nevertheless. She would have used the door in the solar that led out onto the small terrace above the garden, had she really wanted to go outside. But he found the door locked, the key on its peg on the wall. Cursing under his breath, he went back to the corridor. He did not believe she would have taken the side door had she wanted to go outside and he did not want to pass by the guards' room further down the corridor. Perhaps the hall? At least it was a possibility. Opening the door that led to the hall, he at once spotted Acwuld, one of the older men of his guard.

"Sire?" Acwuld sprang to attention, but Éomer waved him off.

"Have you seen the queen come through here?"

"The queen?" Acwuld looked flummoxed. "Certainly not, Sire." Pointing at the clock candle, he added: "I took over nearly three hours ago, and during my watch she has not been in the hall." He gave Éomer a queerish look. "Have you checked in the kitchen, Sire?"

"The kitchen?" Now it was Éomer's turn to look flabbergasted. Why should she have gone down to the kitchen? Could she not just send for a servant if she wanted something from the kitchen? But he felt in no mood to discuss the queen's behaviour with one of his guards. Nodding his thanks, he retreated to the royal quarters, checking if Lothíriel had come back in the meantime before making his way along the corridor towards the narrow staircase that connected the royal quarters directly with the kitchens on the northern side of the hill. It was normally used by the servants, bringing up food to the royal chambers, but feeling the cold stones of the steps under his bare feet, he remembered how many times he had sneaked down into the warm kitchen as a boy, as much for some extra food as for the soothing comfort of Frithuswith's straightforward care. But what could have caused Lothíriel to go down to the kitchen? If she had gone there at all.

He passed through a kind of anteroom of the kitchens, where trays and other means of carriage were stored on shelves along the walls and where now the kitchen boys were sleeping on pallets that only left a quite narrow passage towards the kitchen door. Opening it, he at once noticed that there were people about, and crossing the room in front of him, he peeked through the archway that led into the main room with the hearth.

Ymma was standing at the hearth, busy with something in a smallish pan from which rose the smell of fried meat, and at the large work-table nearby sat Lothíriel, wrapped up in his robe, one knee tucked up under her chin, a variety of plates, jars and dishes in front of her.

"Here you are, Hláefdige." With a flourish Ymma set the pan on the table, giving the queen what Éomer could only describe as a conspiratorial grin. "Just a minute, and I'll have some roasted bread ready to go with it."

"Thank you, Ymma. That's just what I need."

With nimble fingers Lothíriel fished a small meatball out of the pan and having blown at it to cool it down a bit, she popped it into her mouth before reaching for one of the bowls with cubes of sheep cheese. Éomer's jaw slackened. He had worried what might have befallen his wife, and here she was, gay as a lark, stuffing her face in the middle of the night. Why had she not woken him up? Was it perhaps not the first time she had sneaked off to the kitchen and Acwuld knew and therefore had looked that strangely at him? Éomer was at a loss. He went a few steps closer without either of the two women noticing him. Ymma put the roasted bread on the table.

"Is there anything else you would like to eat, Hláefdige?"

Lothíriel shook her head, munching happily. "No, thank you Ymma. I know it's unreasonable to make you cook meatballs in the middle of the night, but..."

Ymma's laughter interrupted her. "Lothíriel Cwen, it's a pleasure to be able to make you feel comfortable."

Lothíriel grinned. "Well, in that case... Could it be that there still are some of those pickled peppers? Or at least any other pickles? I feel I could kill for some."

"Then I should better have a look." Chuckling, Ymma went to one of the shelves. "Here you are. Pickled peppers and there is also some of that sea aster honey from Dol Amroth."

Lothíriel made a squealing sound. "Splendid! A taste of home!"

Éomer swallowed. _A taste of home..._ And he had thought she was happy at his side. At his side and in the Mark. And here she was, obviously homesick and trying to keep that fact from him. Had that been the thing she had not told him during their journey through the Eastemnet? All of a sudden he felt cold and sick, not knowing how to react. He had better retreat quietly before she noticed him. He would talk to Frithuswith in the morning, perhaps they could find a solution, a way to help her. Slowly moving backwards, he only noticed the stool in his way when he banged into it, causing it to topple over.

"Éomer?" Another meatball in her hand, Lothíriel stared at him, blushing profoundly.

Wordlessly he walked up to her and sat down at the table. He felt disappointed that she had not told him about her feelings, but seeing her embarrassment, he could not help the urge to ease her discomfort. He reached for her free hand, and stroking it he asked: "Why did you not tell me, Lothíriel?"

Before she could answer, Ymma cleared her throat. "If you do not need me any more, Éomer King, Lothíriel Queen..."

Lothíriel shook her head. "No, thank you Ymma."

They waited until Ymma had left the kitchen, and then Éomer repeated his question. "Why? If I had known, I could have tried to help you, Dear. Made things easier for you, perhaps I..."

She snorted. "The only thing you would have done is to fuss over me and try to pamper me."

"And what's wrong about that? You are my wife. What is wrong with a husband mollycoddling his wife? What..."

With a fast movement she shoved the meatball between his teeth. "I suppose there is nothing wrong with it, Éomer. Nothing except the fact that I do not like being mollycoddled. And I would have told you in a few days anyway." She smiled a bit sheepishly and reached for one of the peppers.

He swallowed the meatball and heaved a breath. "Who knows, except Ymma, that is?"

She shrugged and dipped the pickle into the honey-jar. "Frithuswith. Some others might suspect, but I only talked to Frithuswith and she advised me to take Ymma into my confidence."

Saucer-eyed Éomer watched his wife licking the honey off the pepper and then biting off the tip of the hot pickle and munching it contentedly. Seeing him stare, she shrugged. "I know it's a bit strange. But Frithuswith told me to eat what I fancied and not to waste thoughts whether it's appropriate or not. So I do, and it makes me feel good." She tilted her head and grinned at him. "And don't you worry. I won't ask _you_ to eat pickles with honey or cheese with liquorice."

"Cheese with liquorice?" _Béma, what an incredible combination! _He could not help a shudder.

"That's what I had last night." Her smile was certainly mischievous now, her eyes sparkling with mirth. At least she seemed to have overcome her fit of homesickness, and if it really made her feel better he would put up with his wife eating weird and rather disgusting combinations of food in the middle of the night. He gently pulled her close, kissing the tip of her ear that stuck out from the tussle of her hair.

"Anything you want, Love. But please, don't sneak out of the room again without waking me. I was really worried when I woke up and found you gone."

She snuggled into his chest. "Promise. I did not want to trouble you. I just did not expect you to wake up. I mean, you didn't yesterday."

"Was that the first time you went to the kitchen?"

She nodded. "Acwuld was walking along the corridor to take his post in the hall and he looked a bit unsettled, so I told him I was going to the kitchen."

Éomer nodded. That certainly explained the guard's behaviour. He looked down into her face. Nothing gave a hint at any unease or nostalgia, quite the contrary. She looked healthy, contented, a happy smile curling the corners of her mouth as she nuzzled into his shirt. She yawned. "I suppose we had better go to bed. There will be a meeting with a delegation of merchants from Dol Amroth tomorrow morning and I promised Ealhild the weaver to be present."

"Merchants from Dol Amroth? Will you be up to it, Dear?"

She sat up straight and rolled her eyes. "Men! What did I say? You will fuss! And here you are."

He frowned. He knew she was absolutely right, but he could not help worrying. "Look, Lothíriel, I know it would be more than helpful for our weavers if you were present at the negotiations. But I do not want you to be exposed to..."

Lothíriel laughed out loud. "Uinen's sweet mercy, Éowyn told me you are a high-handed and over-protective... "

"I don't care what she said, Lothíriel." His voice was clipped. _That sister of his! _Though he had to admit that perhaps he was just a bit too protective. But was not his wife his responsibility? In a softer tone he continued: "I only ask you to consider if dealing with people from Dol Amroth might not increase your homesickness."

"My...what?" Never had he seen her that dumbfounded. "Homesickness? Are you out of your mind?"

Now it was his turn to look dumbfounded. "But you said you wanted "a taste of home".

"And that makes me homesick? Éomer!" She nearly choked with laughter. "Goodness, how homesick poor Erchirion must have been then when he begged Frithuswith on his knees for some chilli-sauce."

"He was drunk, and you know that."

"He certainly was." She giggled. "But I bet you, even if he had been homesick, you would not even have thought about making such a fuss." Twisting her face to the most conceited expression, she literally looked down her nose till she nearly squinted. "So shall I assume that the welfare of my dear brother does not move your barbarian warrior's heart?"

"May I remind you that I'm not married to Erchirion?" Relieved that she obviously was happy and content, he fell in with her banter. "But why in Béma and Erce's name are you wandering the halls and corridors of Meduseld at night, Hláefdige min, rummaging its stores and kitchens for … rather unusual combinations of food, to say the least?"

She blushed and shrugged. "Ravenousness I suppose. I can't explain. I think of the food, or I smell it... Sometimes I just imagine smelling it, and then I have to get it."

He stared. He had not noticed such behaviour with her before. Sure, she had been tasting dishes, now and then when they were offered to her, and he remembered that she had sampled tasty morsels at any camp-fire out on the plains, but that certainly was different from standing up in the middle of the night to... Seeing her embarrassed look, he decided it did not matter, and he told her so, causing her to smile wryly.

"I know it is just a superstition, Éomer, but I feel so strange about it. I just don't want to take the risk."

Immediately he was alerted. What could cause his pirate queen to back away from any risk? He gently took her hands. "Tell me about it, will you?"

"You promise not to laugh?"

He kissed the tip of her nose. "Promise."

"Well..." Again she shrugged. "The people of Dol Amroth call it the "Scent". They believe that if a pregnant woman desires a particular food and does not get at least a bite, a taste of it, it can affect the unborn child."

His heart skipped a beat as her words sunk in. _Could it be...?_ He did not dare to ask, lest it was another misunderstanding. But he needed to know.

"Lothíriel..."

She met his gaze and simply nodded. "I meant to tell you at the end of the month. I wanted to be sure and my next cycle would be due then."

He heaved a breath to calm himself. "So you are not sure yet?"

"I am sure, Éomer. But I was not sure if I could be sure..." She stopped, as if realising what she had said and laughed. "I'm sorry, Éomer. I must sound like an idiot. But Mereth told me not to be too certain if I miss my bleeding, because a lot of things might cause some irregularities in my cycle: the journey, the different climate... So I waited and told myself not to expect too much. But I'm sure at last."

He felt strange. As if it was not him being told he would be a father, and suddenly the fear that all this was a dream seized him._ It had to be a dream. And he would wake up in a cold bed and find that these last months had been nothing but a dream._

"Éomer? She was clearly worried, not knowing what to make of his strange behaviour.

"Pinch me."

"What?"

"Pinch me, so I know I'm not dreaming."

Her fingers got hold of some skin on his forearm, and with a determined movement she twisted it mercilessly. Éomer grimaced with pain and then he simply hauled her off her chair and into his arms.

"So when... I mean since when have you been thinking..."

She nestled up against him."I was quite sure at the end of March. My cycles were always very regular and I had the last one the days before I left Minas Tirith. I was afraid I might be forced to ride with... Well, it's rather uncomfortable, you know? But everything went well."

"At the end of March?" His heart was in his mouth. "But that means..."

Laughing she wrapped her arms around him. "That means the stable-master of Edoras will be able to collect quite a nice sum and the people will sing about Éomer Éadig, the warrior-king who knows how to wield his spear."

**annotations:**

The **"scent"** is a superstition that really exists in Greece (at least it did some thirty years ago ;)), and as I am prone to realism, I rely on my personal experience and do not have Lothíriel show the "ordinary" symptoms of pregnancy like morning sickness which I never felt. But I had to cope with a really strange tiredness on the one hand while feeling well and rather energetic on the other. And I did eat quite weird things...:-[

Well, these things clarified, there is nothing left but to thank you all for reading, lurking, reviewing, flaming ;D and perhaps shaking you head.

**I would like to thank all people who helped and encouraged me, especially sep12 and LBJ who helped me with the language, but also the other ladies from the Garden of Ithilien, and Lialathuveril and Ygrain33.**

This story has finally come to an end and I hope you enjoyed reading it. I need a break now, perhaps a longer one, I don't know yet. I'm not sure if I will continue writing, as it is taking quite a lot of time. I want to have some time to think about it.

I wish you all a Merry Christmas, Yule, Solstice or whatever you celebrate and a very happy and successful New Year.

Thanwen, writer of weird stories and torturer of hoggish horselords. ;D


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